All I Want Is Freedom
by letthesongtakeflight
Summary: Christine returns to Erik the night before her wedding, hoping to gain closure and finally be free of him. Erik realizes that he doesn't have the strength to let her go, and she realizes that if freedom means living without him, she would rather be his prisoner. Set from the events of "Beneath A Moonless Sky" in Love Never Dies, but will not be an alternate LND story.
1. Prologue: Cloaked Under The Night

**Author's note: **I started writing this story exactly a year ago in the back of a rental car in England. I never liked how, in Love Never Dies, Erik leaves Christine after the night she goes back to him (_Beneath a Moonless Sky_). He's gotten everything he wants, so why would he leave her? It never made sense to me, so that's why I wrote this story.

This story is mainly musical based, in terms of the events that took place in Phantom. There will also be some references to Kay, especially in the details and descriptions. Some Leroux may have slipped in there too.

The story takes place in 1882. Kay's Phantom sets the story in 1881; in the musical the masquerade is at new year's eve, making it Dec 31st 1881. Hence, everything that happens from that point on, ie the cemetery scene, Don Juan, Christine's leaving with Raoul and so on, takes place in 1882.

**Disclaimer: **Obviously I am not dead, so I'm not Gaston Leroux. I'm not Susan Kay either because I WISH that I could write like her. And if I were Andrew Lloyd Webber I wouldn't write something like Love Never Dies (shudders). So **no, I don't own Phantom of the Opera. **I just wish I did.

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**Prologue: Cloaked Under The Night**

_March 1882_

If someone had been outside the de Chagny mansion at two in the morning, under the star-flecked night sky that early March, they would have seen a feminine figure climb out of a window on the ground floor and, hooded, run through the streets of Paris, under the blanket of darkness. Her feet, petite and delicate, yet hardened from years as a ballerina, pounded the cobblestones, encased only by thin flats. She was careful to stick to the shadows. The hood of her black cloak masked her face.

She approached a grand architectural structure in the centre of Paris. A thousand memories flashed through her mind – when she first arrived here as a child of ten; all the times she had strolled through the front doors; the joy of singing her heart and soul out on stage; the roar of the audience's applause; the night she fled from here like a bird from a burning forest.

And him. His presence was acute in every memory. The gentle voice that comforted her; the strict tutor commanding her to sing; the musical genius that enchanted her; the disfigured demon that terrified her. But behind all of those were the same man – her Angel of Music.

Christine Daae passed by the main entrance of the silent building. Instead she rounded by its perimeter, making her way along the Rue Scribe. She carefully searched for the secret entrance, from which she had exited that night of Don Juan. The doorway was in plain sight, but was so mundane and inconspicuous that if she had not been looking for it, she would have simply dismissed it without a second's thought. Fleetingly, she worried that the entrance would be blocked, but no; it opened. Christine slipped into the dark tunnel, removing her hood. She couldn't see anything, and fervently prayed in her heart that she would not be caught in any of the deadly traps in the passage. With her hand on the rough wall as her guide, she descended down once more into the bowels of the opera house.

She didn't remember the tunnel to be so long. The darkness stretched infinitely before her and she feared more than once that she had lost her way. But the ground beneath her sloped steadily down, and she kept faith that her angel was still in the opera house. There would be no other way for her to find him; she could not afford to lose hope. And so she persisted, blindly hoping that she would eventually reach the house on the lake. Her efforts and faith proved to be worthwhile, for she finally she reached a familiar waterway, with a boat still tied to the dock.

Hope flared once again in her chest at the sight. She rowed across the lake and without fail, saw the house on the lake, only a small distance away from the dock. The front door was ajar; her heart fluttered in terror at its implications. The drawing room was illuminated only by a single, dying candle. By its weak light she could see that it was completely wrecked.

Shattered pieces were strewn across the ground. Glass, cloth, porcelain, metal, wood. She could barely recognize the once familiar room. Among the debris on the ground were torn pieces of paper, sporting the remainders of hand-written notes. She could not imagine how it must have pained him to have his work ruined by the mob.

_Not as much as when you left him_, she reminded herself, feeling her heart give a painful twist at the accusation that she knew was so true. How much of this damage was done by the mob, and how much by his own hand? Had he lashed out blindly in his rage, after she abandoned him to the solitude that had plagued him his whole life?

A breeze flickered through the room, blowing out the single candle that lit it.

"Of all the people I expected." his voice: so clear, so close. The tenor was as irresistible as she remembered it, harmonious and resonating in the rich timbre. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart leaped with a strange mix of pain and endless longing that she herself could not explain. "Angel?"

"I am no longer your angel." he spat with contempt. "I thought that we made that clear. I am not the Angel of Music, and you are not the gullible little Christine Daae to whom I fed those lies."

Why did she come here? She had not hoped beyond finding him; actually confronting him was more than she had expected. His presence was intimidating. Her mind was blank; she couldn't remember why she wanted to come. _To make peace_. The single thought rose groggily to the surface of her numbed brain. _To say goodbye_. If she didn't end this, she would never get another chance to bring closure to this chapter of her life. This angel and demon would constantly be in her mind, forever haunting her. She had to make one last attempt at farewell. It was the only way she would be free.

She hesitantly took a step towards the general direction of his voice. He was so close; his presence was overwhelming. "Please." She took a shaky breath. "I came to say goodbye."

He laughed – a harsh sound, void of humor. She inhaled sharply; this side of her Angel scared her. This was when he was no longer her Angel, but the terrifying Phantom "So that's why you came. I should have known better, _Viscomtesse_."

"I am no Viscomtesse." she shot back defiantly. "At least," she added in a small voice that more closely mirrored her uncertainty and nervousness. "Not until tomorrow." She took another step, and heard him draw a sudden breath. She was so close that she could feel the faint warmth of his body, feel his breath on her face, smell his husky scent. "Please; I want us to part on better terms."

"Why? Don't you hate me?" he choked bitterly. "I'm a monster, Christine."

"You're the man that tutored me, you gave me everything." she could reach out and touch him, if she wanted, but she was afraid that the contact would drive him back. And so she proceeded with care, as one would a wild animal. "You were once my everything, and even now… I can't deny that you are important to me."

"Don't torture me this way; don't give me this false hope, only to take it back." he snarled. If he spoke in any other way, his voice would waver and he would have no choice but to take Christine in his arms and never relent his hold on her again. He could not give in; could not harm her any more. He would gladly take another hundred stabs to his already mutilated heart, if it could spare her perfect one from being so much as bruised.

"I'm sorry." her voice shook as she suppressed the urge to cry. Her presence withdrew from his side as she moved towards the doorway. "I shouldn't have come, it was foolish of me." Fiercely blinking to stop the tears – in vain – she turned away. "Goodbye, my Angel,"

"Erik."

She froze. "What?"

"My name. Erik Destler."

A small smile crept onto her face despite herself. "Erik." she took small steps back towards his side, fearing his reaction. "My Angel has a name. Erik." once again, she was close enough to reach out and touch him. And this time, she tentatively slipped her arms around him.

He was stiff under her embrace. Forget his torture chamber with its mirrored walls to drive a man insane; this was a far worse agony. He could almost imagine a life with her – she would hug him this way when she returned home every day, he would kiss her hair, and then her lips… He forced himself back to the present. That life would never exist. Thinking about it would only make the pain of the loss sharper, crueler.

As she raised her head, her forehead brushed his chin. Before he could move, her mouth had, in the darkness, collided with his. There was a long, painful moment when they were both motionless, shocked into stillness. The next instant, their mouths were crashing against each other's with ferocity, their kisses growing heated, lips locked in a dance that was older than civilization, as ancient as mankind itself. There was no tomorrow, no charming Viscomte, no imminent wedding. There was only now, this night beneath a moonless sky, where nothing mattered except for them.

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**Author's note:**

Leave a review and let me know if you like it :]

**Edit:** Since finals are over, I have time now to edit this story. I'll be uploading two chapters every week – every Tuesday and Friday. I'll also upload this story on Archive Of Our Own, on the same days. If there are any inconsistencies when you read this story, it will probably be because of my editing and re-uploading.


	2. Chapter 1: Dawn

**Author's note:** Thank you to every single one of you who have given any time and attention to this story. Every reader who has favorited, subscribed, reviewed or read this story – thank you. It is flattering to know that there are people who enjoy reading this story. Every Tuesday I'll be posting a new chapter, so I can keep updating this story.

A reviewer has asked me to put smut in this story. I don't know how many of you I will be disappointing, but I have no intention of changing the rating of this story to M. There are several reasons for this, the main one being that I don't see any particular reason to do so. I don't like putting in smut, or extremely gory scenes, or really anything that can bump the rating up to M, just for the sake of writing it (that being said, if there is a good reason to include that, I will). Also, when you browse this site, the default rating excludes M, and I want more people to be able to see this story when they scroll through Fanfiction. net.

Once again, this story is mostly musical based. Anything from before the start of the musical is a mixture of my own imagination and Kay, possibly with a sprinkle of Leroux.

**Disclaimer: **As much as I want to own Phantom and especially Erik, I don't. Anything recognizable belongs to ALW, Kay or Leroux.

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**Chapter 1: Dawn**

_March 1882_

A couple lay asleep, tangled in each other's naked embrace. Sunlight was pouring in through a crack in the roof, highlighting her creamy, flawless skin. In comparison, his too-pale complexion seemed ghostly. Half of his face was hideously scarred. In some places the skin stretched too tight. In others, it wrinkled and folded into a grotesque texture. His cheek was sunken, giving the face a skeleton-like quality.

Erik's eyes snapped open. They were an unearthly gold, almost cat-like with the light that gleamed from them. He knew with terrible clarity that last night was a mistake; he had to leave to undo it. He couldn't submit Christine to a life with him – a life filled with danger and darkness, with a man who could neither protect her nor provide for her. The darkness would taint and smother her. As a being of light, she belonged in the world above ground, not hidden in the shadows. He had no place at her side, not as the monster he was doomed to be from birth.

When Christine woke, the first thing her eyes settled upon was the mangled flesh of her lover's face. She lovingly caressed the gruesome cheek with her fingertips. The most adoring and tender of smiles was upon her perfect lips as she allowed her fingers to explore the terrain of his deformity. Her blue-grey eyes were aglow with the gentle warmth of a lover, a lover who found this monster beautiful, who saw beauty where even a mother could not.

He was startled by the sensation of the tender touch on his deformity. He had never known any touch but a cruel one. Was Christine honestly _stroking_ his face? How could she lay her eyes on it, much less touch it of her own free will?

"Morning." she whispered in her soprano tones, smiling at him with kiss-swollen lips. And with that one word, that one kind gesture, he realized that he could never let her leave. He didn't have the strength to do so. Giving her freedom would crush his soul and take away his life. No, he could not leave her. He may have brought her to doom along with himself, but he could not let her go again. Whatever resolve he previously possessed shattered like a mirror, broken into so many fragments that the reflection distorted, so much that his reflection would be no different from a normal man's.

His Christine had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes shone with the soft glow of – could it truly be? – love. The light illuminated her flawless skin, highlighted all the colors and shades of her hair. Chocolate brown, with a touch of mahogany here and a stroke of chestnut there. She was a creature straight from heaven.

Her beauty reminded him of his own hideous appearance, and he reached for the mask that lay on his bedside table.

"Erik, no." she addressed him by the name he had revealed to her the night before, gripping his wrist. There had never been a more beautiful sound in the world than the sound of his name on her lips. "I thought I proved to you last night that I don't care what you look like." she cupped his scarred cheek with fondness. He jerked away, uncomfortable with physical contact on his imperfect face. Hurt flooded suddenly and completely into her youthful face, and he put his hand above hers in a shy gesture of comfort. He marvelled at how her much smaller hand fit perfectly into his palm.

"Last night…" he breathed in wonder. For once, he failed to find the words to tell her how he felt – the sheer joy of their reunion; the intense passion as they made love; the disbelief that she was here of her own free will.

She nodded, a blush heating her cheeks. "If you doubt me, I want you to know that I meant every word I said. I love you, Erik." Her face was open and vulnerable as she bared her soul to him. Any doubts he had about her feelings evaporated like dew in the morning. Christine was an actress, and a good one at that. But no amount of practice or skill could deliver this sincerity, this display of emotion from her soul.

He wrapped his arms around her tiny frame, pressing his face into her hair. How could he have dreamed of leaving her? That night in his lair, he thought that the ultimate act of love was to set her free. But now, he found that he loved her too much to let her slip through his fingers one more time. He could not stop himself from confessing in a murmur: "This morning, before you woke… I almost left."

Her heart stopped. "What?" her whisper was fearful as she clung to him fiercely. She enveloped his warm, bare body in the cocoon of her arms, as though she was physically strong enough to keep him from leaving her. "Why? I thought you wanted this… that you wanted me."

"I do, my angel, I do." he said with conviction. "Never think that I will stop loving or wanting you. But a life with me would be dangerous, uncertain," he sighed heavily. His beautiful feline eyes pooled with remorse. "And you would have to face this repulsive carcass of a man everyday for the rest of your life. I cannot condemn you to this. You're too beautiful, too good, too pure, to be punished like that."

"It is the life I choose." she declared with fierce passion. "A life without you would be unimaginable, I wouldn't want it. I can't live without you, just like I can't live without music. I love you; anywhere you go, let me go too!"

She surprised him with the fire of her words. Where was the meek, uncertain child she had been, up to a month ago? The girl who had fretted between suitors, uncertain of her heart, was now a woman who was sure of what she wants and was ready to fight for it. She had been granted freedom, but now she was throwing it away with both hands when she realized that that freedom was yet another captivity, one that deprived her of music and of her angel. In that moment, he didn't have the words to express his realization. "I love you." he caressed her cheek with a tenderness that only she has seen.

"I love you too." she said simply with a small smile. Erik had never been more content than in that moment. With Christine's small body nestled against his, her arms rested around him, her cool breath batted against his bare chest, he felt that he would never want anything ever again. "And I'm terribly sorry for what I did. I had no right to leave you that way. No; the first fault I committed was pulling your mask away." she traced her fingers along the lines of his deformity. Erik fought the instinct to shy away from her touch; she was not like the rest of the world, who would punish him for the birth defect. She had proved it and he should return that by placing his trust in her. "I'm sorry for what I did then. The mask was your privacy and I pulled it away like an ignorant child. And I'm sorry for everything that followed: for abruptly fleeing to Raoul and abandoning you. I was waiting and waiting for you to come to me, for I lacked the courage to approach you! I'm sorry for playing a role in his plan to capture you – please know that I didn't mean to have any part in that!"

"I know, my dear." he comforted her desperate plea. "I was watching."

"You were?" comfort gleamed in her eyes for a moment, before she continued: "But most of all, I am sorry for that night." He knew without asking that she was referring to the night of _Don Juan_. "I'm sorry for unmasking you once again, in front of…" guilt and self-reproach dominated her face, and she continued in a whisper: "In front of the _world_. I don't know what drove me to do that. It seemed the only thing to do at the moment. My heart was closed; I couldn't accept your love. I was scared of the intensity and the flame of your love.

"And finally, when you brought me down here, and I had to make that choice. I chose you. For saving Raoul's life, or for saving yours, I don't know. When you sent me away, offered my freedom at no price, I shouldn't have accepted it. I should have honored the agreement." Tears rolled down her perfect cheeks, leaving behind salty stains. "I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry that I have given you so much less than you deserve."

Erik was dumbstruck. No one had ever apologized to him. No one had ever shed tears for him. No one had ever told him that he deserved more. No one had ever felt remorse for their actions to him. "Shh, Christine…" awkwardly, he attempted to soothe her. "Please, don't cry." he murmured. "You don't owe me anything, least of all an apology. Of all the people I have met, you are one of the extreme few that were not cruel to me."

"You only say so because your love blinds you." she insisted. "I have been wretched."

"Perhaps." he agreed. "But what you did was a great mercy compared to everything else I have experienced."

She blinked those doe-like eyes at him. "Was it?" she questioned innocently.

"Last night; and this," he gestured at their entangled bodies. "Is enough to make up for everything you have done. Every pain you caused has been erased." her only response was to press ever closer to him, as though to convince both of them that she would offer everything she had to make atone for her wrongs.

Christine's stomach chose that moment to complain. She giggled, a blush colouring her cheeks, and he chuckled at her embarrassment. "I'd better make you breakfast – I won't have you starving." he unwillingly untangled himself from her arms and rose. Her eyebrows creased in the center as she clambered into a sitting position. The sheets pooled around her, loosely hiding her form. She suddenly looked so small and vulnerable, lonely in his huge bed.

"Please, don't leave…"

He would have happily given in to her command, but reason spoke otherwise. "Your wedding is in two hours; I'm sure they'll have noticed by now that you're gone." he picked up his discarded clothing from the floor and put them on. "Your fop will come looking for me, the monster that kidnapped his bride." he sneered. His eyes lit up with a cold, cruel light. Like an Angel of Death.

"I'm not marrying Raoul today." she declared proudly, tossing back her mane of wild curls. She was fierce, her words burning with heat, matching his freezing rays.

Erik bent and framed her delicate face with long, musician's fingers. The frightening angel disappeared, replaced by a tender lover. "My angel, they will force you." He whispered. His unearthly eyes shone with the fear of losing her.

"Then we run." she kissed him deeply, with a clear reminder of last night's ardor. His fingers tangled into her hair, into those beloved chestnut curls. They broke the kiss with their chests heaving for air, love and lust glowing with equal brightness in their eyes and their parted lips.

Awkwardly, Erik moved away from her. "I'll have breakfast ready in a moment." he mumbled.

"Thank you." she smiled and watched his retreating back leave the room, closing the door behind him. She was grateful to him, for giving her this privacy. She was his woman now, he could watch her get dressed if he wanted to, but he chose to respect her privacy. Everything Erik did was showing her that he was a sweet, gentle, caring man. Yes, she knew that he wouldn't always be like this; after all this was the former Opera Ghost who terrorized and blackmailed the managers and cast. But she loved him. He had never been loved before, not even by his mother. She wanted to know about his childhood, about the years of solitude and wandering, even about the hellish torment that created the Erik today.

Undeniably, she had been a selfish, shallow girl. She had caused Erik the intense pain that can only come from a broken heart. And he had forgiven her all too easily; much more easily than she deserved. Her own forgiveness of her actions, on the other hand, was quite a different matter. She promised herself that she would make amends. She would show Erik the love that he had been deprived of. She would show him that he would no longer be alone. She did not forget that he was the frightening Opera Ghost; but at the same time he was an angel. She had faith that, given the chance, her angel would flourish and be free of the chains of darkness that had bound him his whole life.


	3. Chapter 2: One Love, One Lifetime

**Author's note: **I'm completely flattered that you guys are reading this story! And the number of positive reviews that I get are inspiring. Thanks for all the support!

**Disclaimer: **Once again, I don't own anything recognizable from ALW, Kay or Leroux.

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**Chapter 2: One Love, One Lifetime**

_March 1882_

Erik's home was of an irregular shape. The cellars under the Opera Garnier were crooked and uneven, so Erik had been forced to build his house according to the space available to him. But like any great architect, or, indeed, any ingenious artist, his greatest works were born from a restriction. The two largest caverns were occupied by the music room, the drawing room and Erik's laboratory, where he conducted experiments and built contraptions. These rooms were guarded by the black, impassible waters of the lake. They were also the ones that, on the night the mob came, were destroyed completely.

A narrow corridor from the living room led to a second, smaller cavern, which contained several smaller rooms, those essential for maintaining a life. The kitchen, though Erik ate infrequently, was necessary for survival. Then two bedrooms; Erik's and Christine's. Each room had its own separate bathroom, supplied with water from the lake. Erik had engineered a device that could keep water heated in a tank in an adjoining chamber, so warm water was available at the turn of a tap. These rooms were the keep of Erik's castle, so to speak – the most well protected area. There were only two entrances to this smaller cavern. One of these was the hidden entrance to the hallway. From the outer rooms, this entrance was perceived to be a wall. Only by triggering a contraption would the wall open, much like the mirror in Christine's old dressing room. The second and final entrance was through the torture chamber, which activated automatically once a victim unknowingly enters.

Therefore, the essential part of Erik's home had remained untouched after the mob's attack two months ago. It had also been undiscovered by the multiple parties that had ventured under the opera house in search of the disappeared Ghost. Unbeknownst to them, Erik had stayed in his home, a mere disguised wall away. Everything he needed to maintain his existence was stocked in his living quarters. Rightly confident as he was in his abilities to remain hidden, he saw no need to leave his home.

Trying to avoid any large movements, Christine made her way to the kitchen, now fully dressed. Through the half closed door, she could see Erik's back as he busied over the stove. The table was set for one, with elegant white china. There was a dish of delicious looking croissants, making her mouth water.

"Aren't you eating with me?" She called, opening the door. A pot of tea in hand, Erik turned around to face her. To her dismay, it was not her lover's scarred face that greeted her, but the impassive white mask. Its gleaming porcelain surface mocked her, reminding her that Erik was not comfortable enough to be himself with her. Not even after their night together, not even after her confession of love. He still felt the need to hide himself from her. She tried to push away her disappointment; after all, Erik had spent the majority of his life condemned by the unfortunate deformity on his face. His insecurity and self-consciousness were built up over a lifetime; she could hardly expect that to be revoked overnight.

Erik set the pot of tea on the table and turned to smile at her. Ever the gentleman, he pulled moved around the table to her chair out for her. She quickened her steps to join him. But pain shot through her core and she winced.

"What is it?" he rushed to her side at once. His hand hovered at her arm in concern, but was hesitant to initiate contact.

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Just... sore." She grimaced at the word. Their activities last night had been her first time, and there was a dull ache between her legs.

"Forgive me." he mumbled, the apology falling awkwardly from his lips. His eyes were troubled as he struggled with self-loathing and remorse.

"It was not your fault." she spaced each word out, speaking them with clarity. Her blue-grey eyes widened persuasively as they held his gaze. "I made the first move, I sought you out, I wanted it as much as you did." she took his hand and brought it to her lips, bestowing a soft kiss upon the back of his skeletal hand. "Oh, and Erik?" his eyes attentively met hers, patiently waiting for what she had to say. "You were unbelievably, unexpectedly, gentle last night." she looked up at him shyly from beneath her lashes, her pale cheeks flushing a gorgeous pink. She stroked his mask with the tips of her fingers. Her smile turned into a frown as she touched its hard, cold surface. "I thought I told you that you don't have to wear this with me,"

"The mask is for my own comfort." he replied sharply. "How would you feel about walking around stark naked?"

Something sparked in her eyes for a second at his harsh tone. Fear, mixed with surprise. It was immediately replaced with guilt at mentioning this sensitive subject. He sighed, regretting already that he snapped at her. "Christine, just because you don't care what I look like doesn't mean that I don't care." he said brusquely. "I don't want to subject anyone to the torture of looking at my face, least of all you, who should never have to set your eyes on anything less than perfect."

She rolled her eyes. "You _do _know that you judge yourself too harshly."

"The mask stays on." he was firm.

"You're impossible." she glared at him. "I bet that the table is set for one, only because you can't eat with the mask on." she challenged, in hopes – admittedly childish ones – that he would be provoked to remove the mask. His silence confirmed her suspicion, that eating with the mask on was uncomfortable. "So take that blasted mask off and eat! You've never let me skip any meals, even when I was fifteen and dieting to stay slim. And now you are not eating your breakfast because you don't want me to see you unmasked; it's no wonder you're all skin and bones! I think that last night is more than sufficient to prove that I don't care what you look like." Erik sighed in defeat, grumbling incoherently about her stubbornness, but fetched another set of eating utensils from one of the cabinets.

Christine had never tasted Erik's cooking before. The pastry was good, much better than the food at the opera house. She bit hungrily into the croissant. "I didn't realize you could cook." she said, then immediately regretted it. She felt like slapping herself for being so stupid – of course he could cook! He had fed himself for most of his life, hadn't he? And it was obvious that he didn't eat rats raw, contrary to the popular belief of half the ballet girls. As for the quality of the food, she realized that she shouldn't be surprised, as her lover made everything into an art. Just as he had mastered music and architecture, he had mastered cooking.

"If I couldn't, I would have starved to death years ago." Erik replied sharply.

She didn't flinch at all. Instead she met his eyes, undaunted. He had to admit – albeit grudgingly – that he was impressed by this newfound courage. "In that case I'm glad you learned to cook." she said evenly. "If you had starved to death, I wouldn't have met you,"

Erik nodded once, a barely noticeable dip and rise of his head. He wondered when and why she had stopped being afraid of him. He wasn't sure whether he welcomed this change or not. Although he had always wanted Christine to be a strong, independent woman, it was slightly unsettling to see someone completely unafraid of him. It put him out of control, and the sensation of losing control was foreign to a man like him. On the other hand, the experience was not altogether unpleasant. It was comforting to know that he didn't still inspire fear in her.

Christine didn't know how to react to Erik's silence, so she chose to dig into the food. Last night's activities had made her hungry, and she didn't eat enough at the de Chagny mansion. Raoul's family didn't approve of her, and therefore always gave her a hard time during a meal. His sister Laure-Marie, in particular, was outspoken in her disdain for the former chorus girl. She made little attempt to conceal her snide comments. Even in Raoul's presence she would jab at Christine with veiled insults. Comte Philippe, Raoul's brother, was a little more civil in his treatment of his brother's fiancée. To Christine's face, at least, he would treat her with distant courtesy. But she knew that, in private, he had voiced his disagreement with Raoul over his choice of a bride. Christine found it strange that she was more comfortable in the presence of a disfigured man, in the deepest cellars of an opera house, than with her fiancé and his family, in one of the most beautiful mansions of the city.

"It's strange." she remarked lightly. "I've known you for so long, that despite all that had happened between us these past months, I still feel so comfortable in your presence."

She caught him off guard with her frankness. "What about that fop of yours? Don't you feel comfortable with him?"

She pondered for a moment. "I'm fond of him." she admitted. "But with him, I don't feel truly... happy." her eyes met his with a torn expression. "It's like I'm forcing myself to smile and be in love with him. It's too much of an effort. It's not that I don't like him; I do." she amended quickly. "But only because I've known him as a child. Other than that, we were only holding on to a stupid, childish dream. I went to him because..." her lighthearted expression grew into a more somber one as she searched within herself for the answer. "When I learned that my Angel and the Phantom were the same man, I was scared." she confessed, wide-eyed. "I was in denial. I couldn't merge my images of them, so I went to someone... safe. Familiar."

Erik's tone was bitter. "What about your childhood dream? Don't you still want Prince Charming to come sweeping in to rescue you from the monster?" he self-consciously covered the deformed half of his face with his hand.

She reached out to take his hand, uncovering his face. "I don't want Prince Charming. I've waited for the Angel of Music. I want Erik."

His grateful smile was a loud enough answer, so he remained silent. Christine returned the smile with a demure one of her own and turned her concentration back on her croissant. They ate in silence for a while, enjoying each other's silent company, the way they had for the past decade. She had always sensed his presence during her time in the opera house, whether it was in her dressing room, the hallways, or during rehearsals. It made her feel safe, and the silence they kept was a comfortable one. And although neither voiced it, both were glad that in the turmoil of these past months, at least that aspect of their relationship hadn't changed.

"By the way," when Erik spoke again, his voice was casual and back to his usual aloofness. "I have something for you." He calmly rose and placed dirty tableware in the sink. Then he replaced the mask on his face, unwilling to let Christine see him unmasked for any longer than necessary. Christine looked at him expectantly, finishing her croissant off. Erik held up a long, musical finger, a clear indication to wait a moment, and disappeared through the doorway that led to the bedroom. He was back a minute later, holding a small box. "A belated happy birthday." the warmth in his expression was real and tangible. Her twentieth birthday had been two weeks ago; it was the first birthday in nine years that she had not celebrated with him.

Her face split into a delighted grin. "You remembered!" she sounded like a child who received a toy-shop on Christmas day. The newly gained maturity slipped away for a moment, and she looked ten instead of twenty.

Erik knelt down in front of her chair to look her in the eye. He slowly opened the box. It contained a ring, crafted with utmost care. The silver band was smooth, fashioned into the shape of a vine with the most delicate leaves. Its end twisted into an exquisite rose, with life-like petals that furled outwards in full bloom. Sitting in the centre of the bud was a diamond.

_"_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime,_" _Erik repeated the words he had sung after their duet of _The Point of No Return_."Lead me, save me from my solitude / Say you want me with you here beside you / Anywhere you go let me go too / Christine, that's all I ask of you."

She drew in her breath sharply, tears gathering in the expressive depths of her grey eyes. "Yes." she nodded, tears falling like the spring rain. "Yes. A thousand times over, my love." her sight blurred with the droplets that slipped down her cheeks. Erik cupped her jaw, and tentatively, tenderly, he kissed her. A single, lingering, loving kiss. Chaste and sweet; adoring and amorous. He tasted her tears, salty on his tongue.

Unbidden, fresh tears fell down her cheeks. "Erik, I love you."

His voice choked in his throat. _She loved him... She could lucidly, earnestly, __**genuinely **__profess that she loved him. _"And I love you, my sweet, sweet Angel."

"It's the most beautiful, most perfect, most precious gift I've ever received." She held his face between her palms. "It's a promise that I will have you."

His replying smile was wry. "I've always been yours, whether you knew it or not."

There was something else at the back of his mind, irritatingly pricking his curiosity. He knew that he shouldn't ask; the answer probably wasn't something that he would like, not that it mattered now. But, as always, his inherent inquisitiveness won over, and he asked the question. "What did the fop give you?" the seething jealousy he felt was carefully masked with nonchalance.

"You saw the ring he gave me," she said, thinking he referred to her first engagement ring. "You even took it from around my neck, don't you remember?"

"No, I'm not referring to the hideous ring." he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I meant for your birthday."

She looked up in surprise at his question. She had not expected him to touch on this subject. Why did he want to know what his rival was giving her? Did he honestly think that there was something Raoul could give her that was better than the promise of marriage to the right man?

"Expensive jewelry." she answered the seemingly innocent question with honesty. "Stunning diamonds, heavy rubies, elaborate gold ornaments; the likes of that." her lips flitted into a rueful half smile. "Not my taste. Too extravagant, too gaudy… with no thought in it at all."

"And he claims to love you?" Erik's forehead crinkled in his incredulity, anger concealed once again, like calm waters over a raging storm. How dare that boy treat Christine like she was some mere girl who wanted nothing more than to be rich and show off her wealth! Did he not recognize that Christine loved simplicity? That she cared more for the thought behind the gift than its price? How could that fop take a rare, beautiful songbird and treat it like it was some peacock – all extravagance and arrogance, with no talent or humility! Had he truly thought that Christine was superficial like the women who ran in his social circles?

She scoffed. "Like I said, I was vain and childish." she gave a contended sigh, twirling the ring around her finger. "No, he never gave me anything like this." Erik nodded, satisfied with her explanation. "And I don't mean the ring," she added. "He's never given me a sense that we belonged together. I never felt that I owned him, or his heart. So thank you – for the reassurance that you are mine as much as I am yours." whether he believed her or not, she would prove to him that she was, indeed, his forever.


	4. Chapter 3: Leave It Behind

**Author's note: **Every single person who has reviewed or subscribed or faved, or even just read this story, you give me the most satisfied feeling in the world. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. I hope that this story will live up to your expectations.

**Disclaimer: **Here is where I state in some creative way, that I do not own anything recognizable. I wish I were Kay or Leroux or ALW, but alas, I am only a Phan, which is why I am posting this story on FFN.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Leave It Behind**

_March 1882_

"What the hell do you mean, she's not there?" Raoul de Chagny demanded. "Where could she have gone?" His face was contorted in fury. His blue eyes were sharp and dangerous as lightning, pinning the maid to the spot.

"I – I don't know, sir," The maid squeaked. She trembled with fright under the direct rage of her master. At seventeen, she had only just started serving the de Chagnys. The disappearance of the Vicomte's bride was not her fault! The previous night she had helped the Vicomtesse-to-be change into her sleeping attire, listened to her ramble on about her pre-wedding nerves (completely normal for a bride, wasn't it?), seen her into bed and turned the lights out. Yet her young master held her in his gaze as though she were to blame.

"Perhaps she had run away," Raoul's sister, Laure-Marie du Bois, said in an undertone. She was very open in her disapproval for her brother's choice of bride. After all, what was Christine Daae but a menial dancer who had set her eyes on her baby brother's fortune? To the Baroness du Bois, all those dancing girls were the same – common, filthy whores who had bedded half the men they laid their eyes on! Rich, young, handsome, boys like Raoul were exactly the kind they liked preying on.

Raoul rounded on his Laure-Marie. "She did not – how _dare_ you suggest something like that?! As if Christine had no intention of ever marrying me! Keep your thoughts to yourself, Laure-Marie."

Laure-Marie muttered under her breath. "No need to lose your temper, little brother. I was merely making a suggestion."

Raoul turned to his brother, his eldest sibling, for support. "It must have been _him_ – that monster! That freak stole Christine in the dead of the night – he must have!"

"Raoul," Comte Philippe de Chagny spoke calmly. His face, though much like his brother's in structure, was lined with age and experience. His expression was unreadable and Raoul watched him with frantic eyes. Philippe placed a restraining hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "Give word for the gendarmes to be on alert. Find Christine at all costs."

"Thank you." Raoul nodded gratefully. Laure-Marie huffed in annoyance as their eldest brother, the patriarch of the family, backed Raoul up. "Every gendarme will be on the streets today." He continued in determination. "They will receive orders to be on the lookout for either Christine or a masked man. Search everywhere – in every abandoned or empty building, in underground chambers, look for secret entrances. Go through the city with a fine-toothed comb if they must. I will hunt that demon down and kill him!" He seethed. "I _will not_ be made a fool of!"

* * *

Erik pulled the hood carefully over his face, concealing his white mask. With all the tricks he had taught himself throughout his lifetime of wandering, he wove through the streets of Paris, so unnoticed that he might as well have been invisible. Not one of the many passerby so much as glanced at him for more than a moment, immediately dismissing him as another mundane man walking home from his workplace.

The truth could not have been more different. He was out surveying the area. How many gendarmes were in the streets searching for Christine Daae? Were there guards positioned around the roads leading out of the city? Just how many people were aware of the would-be Viscomtesse's sudden disappearance?

The headlines on every newspaper were the Viscomte de Chagny's wedding today. Many papers contained mostly far-fetched truths, from the ridiculous claims about the full cost of the wedding (there was no way the de Chagnys had that much money. Thanks to the Comte's gambling habit, the family's fortune was dwindling rather quickly) to the absurd rumor that the young soprano was pregnant with her fiancé's child (As though Christine was a whore, sleeping around with every rich and handsome man there was! Erik made a gargantuan effort to exercise his self-control in order to stop himself from ripping the paper into shreds).

But overall, the result of Erik's excursion pleased him. There were not many men positioned along the roads; he guessed that the fop had all of his men out searching high and low, instead of stationing them along the perimeters of the city. The roads out of Paris, especially the less travelled ones, were clear.

Satisfied with what he discovered, Erik made his way back to the Rue Scribe entrance, unnoticed.

* * *

Christine fastened her cloak, which she wore when she sought Erik out last night, over her shoulders. Had it only been last night when she tossed and turned in her huge bed in the de Chagny mansion hours after midnight, worrying over the loose threads she left behind her? Had it only been last night when she had dined with Raoul, giving her best attempt at not showing how injured she was by his sister's jeers and his brother's pointed comments? Had it only been last night that she realized she could not begin afresh without making amends with Erik? And had it been the same night when she slept soundly in Erik's arms? She cleared her head; there would be time for these reflections later. Erik wanted to leave his home as soon as possible. He feared Raoul's men would search there, looking for the monster that "kidnapped" the Viscomte's beautiful bride on her wedding day. They were to leave just before nightfall and make for a small house Erik owned just outside the city.

The door opened and Christine jumped. What if it was Raoul's men, bursting in to "rescue" her? The intruder was none other than her lover; she sighed in relief, a hand over her chest. "Calm down, woman!" Erik growled.

"Sorry," she shuffled her feet nervously. "Just jumpy, is all. I'd feel better once we're away from the city,"

His yellow eyes softened and he squeezed her hand gently, running his thumb over her ring. "So would I," he confessed. "But while there are many gendarmes searching for you, the road out of town should be clear. If we leave now we can reach the house before midnight." he explained in a businesslike tone.

She nodded wordlessly and held him close. She breathed in his musky scent, praying fervently in her mind that their journey out of the city would be uneventful. If anyone recognized her, or, even worse, recognized Erik... she dared not think of the consequences.

Noting her silence, his voice turned tender. "Christine?" with the gentle crook of his finger under her chin, he lifted her troubled gaze to meet his. He had misinterpreted her silence. "It's not too late to return to your Vicomte. I cannot force you to leave with me. I can't help what I am." ashamed, he turned his face away from her.

"No!" she threw her arms around his neck. "Don't think for a moment, Erik Destler, that you can get rid of me that easily." she announced, her chin set in a stubborn manner.

His strong arms were around her waist, crossed behind her back. His hands gripped her shoulder blades. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and her soft skin muffled his words. "I would have it no other way." he took a deep breath against her skin before loosening his fierce embrace. "Now, let us begin the journey of the rest of our lives."

They saddled up Iago, Erik's black stallion. In the saddlebags was food for the night. When Christine voiced her concerns about food, clothing and other essentials, Erik reassured her that he had those things in his house that they were going to. Adamant, Christine made him bring his remaining compositions along with him; she couldn't bear the thought of him leaving his music behind. "But you have the composer with you; why would you need the compositions?" he tried reasoning.

"They are your masterpieces, Erik." she insisted. Sighing in defeat, he tucked the hand-written sheet music in his satchel.

Erik helped Christine onto the horse, before he swung onto Iago with practiced ease. He held the reins, his arms on either side of her, so that her back pressed against his chest.

The journey through the city was strangely uneventful. It seemed almost _too _easy. It was hard to believe that Fate would let them leave peacefully without a struggle. Iago's hooves clattered on the cobblestone roads, eerily loud amidst the other noises in the city. The pair rode through the streets of Paris unnoticed. Both had their hoods pulled up, and looked as ordinary and inconspicuous as any couple looking for some moonlit romance outside the city. An old man shook his head at them almost forlornly, as though reminiscing the days when he and his loved one had snuck out of the city at night.

Christine began to feel the tendrils of melancholy creeping up to her. There was the cafe where she and Meg used to visit when they were free from practice and spend those summer afternoons of rare freedom over a cool drink, giggling about the handsome young men in the cast. And there was the jewelry store where she had paused every time she passed it, just to admire those sapphire earrings that cost a fortune. The same earrings had appeared magically in her room her following birthday, a gift from her Angel. She smiled at the fond memory; even when she was only fourteen, he had been rewarding her with presents. And the street where she lived with her father when they'd first come to Paris was just a block down from this boulevard.

Paris had been her home for the past ten years, and she had not yet completely come to terms with the idea that she will never come back here again. She felt the unfamiliar grip of sadness consume her. Leaving this beautiful city was somehow unreal. If she pinched herself hard enough, maybe she would return to reality.

But then again, the whole Angel of Music story between herself and Erik was surreal. Almost as though it was a dream, one that she needed to wake up from. But this – the rocking motion of the horse under her, the feeling of her lover's arms, his chest pressed against her back – this was real. Her fairy-tale ending, the happily ever after with Raoul was merely a fantasy, the product of her girlhood daydreams.

In the quickly diminishing light of dusk, the silhouette of a solitary gendarme on horseback waited at the corner of the street. Christine's pulse quickened; what if he were to recognize her or Erik? She felt Erik's arms tense; saw his fingers twitching restlessly on the reins as he fought the instinct to urge the horse into a gallop.

This particular man was a captain; she was sure she had met him before at a social gathering of some sort. She had, no doubt, been on Raoul's arm, wearing one of those ridiculously fancy gowns. Christine met the gendarme's eyes briefly. She turned away immediately, her heart thumping madly in her chest.

That single second of eye contact proved to be fatal. The gendarme gave a shout, taking off after them. Erik immediately urged Iago into a gallop. Several gunshots rang out behind them. As they passed branching roads, more gendarmes came chasing after them on horseback. Swift and agile, Iago streaked out of the city. Erik steered him towards a forest path. It was faster and less noticeable than the main road. Risking a glance behind her, Christine saw some of the gendarmes take the main road. However, three of them spotted the black stallion in the woods and pursued them with heated cries.

"Take the reins." Erik handed her the leather strip.

She sat mutely.

"Take them!" he commanded with all the force of the Phantom. Christine hastily gripped the reins just as he took one hand off them. Christine saw him fingering the gleaming tip of a revolver in the inside of his coat. She met his eyes with panicked disbelief. "Don't look," he warned her; he didn't want her to witness any violence, especially not by his hand.

Of course, killing the gendarmes would be a much neater solution than simply wounding them and allowing them to live to tell the tale. Sparing their lives would only cause trouble for him in the future. But he could not. He was weary of blood and killing, and was striving to be a man worthy of standing next to Christine. A man who whose name was not tarnished by the label of "murderer".

One hand on Christine's waist for balance, Erik turned around, aimed as carefully as he could from a galloping horse, and shot the closest gendarme. The bullet caught the man in the shoulder and he cried in pain. Erik shot the two other men, wounds that were debilitating but not fatal. Erik turned back to face the road, extending his hands for the reins. Christine gave them to him silently.

Sure that the gendarmes had given up on their chase, Erik slowed Allegro into a walk. Christine could feel her heart pounding in her chest under her corset. She took several deep breaths, trying – in vain – to stop herself from trembling. Were there three corpses now, lying in the road behind them?

"Are they dead?" she asked, her voice flat and emotionless. Erik knew as well as she did that she was suppressing her natural sympathy. She was keeping the emotions bottled up inside her, forcing herself to keep calm in the current situation. He knew that it was him who put her in this situation, in this emotional turmoil, and he hated himself for it.

At his prolonged silence, she urged a little harshly: "Well?"

"No." his voice was as impassive as hers. The decision to be merciful would come back to haunt him in the end. But at least he had a clear conscience.

In relief, Christine let go of the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "Thank you." she whispered.


	5. Chapter 4: Stand And Watch It Burn

**A/N: **Hey, here's the next installment to AIWIF. I'm sorry that the story is going slow at the moment. But I felt that this chapter was necessary in order to understand Christine's character development. There _will _be a bit of fluff next chapter, for those of you who asked for it.

**Disclaimer: **I obviously don't own Phantom in any way. And I don't even WANT to own Love Never Dies.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Stand And Watch It Burn**

_March 1882_

_Dear Madame Giry and Meg,_

Christine hesitated, chewing the top of her pen thoughtfully. If there was a way of eloquently explaining the situation to her (albeit unofficial) adoptive family, it evaded her mind. She didn't know how to tell them everything that had happened in the space of two short days. She had been a night away from sealing her fate as a Vicomtesse. If she had realized her feelings only several hours later, it would have been too late. She would have been Raoul's wife, one who would fake smiles and endure deprecating glances for the rest of her life. In a single impetuous moment, she had rewritten the plan she made for her life.

She wondered what would Meg think of this. Meg, who dreamed shamelessly of fairy tale endings and childhood sweethearts. Meg, who was charmed by a handsome face and sweet-talk as easily as Christine herself had once been. Meg, who would be abhorred with Christine's choice of a lover and fiancé. Like the rest of the superficial Parisian society, Meg would not begin to understand how something grotesque could be loved.

Madame Giry would have a different take from Meg, Christine decided. Christine suspected that Annette Giry had glimpsed, however briefly, the beauty of Erik's soul. She had been opposed to the plan to capture and kill him during the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. She had tried to convince Raoul and the managers that it was unwise to plot against Erik. To a certain extent, Erik had trusted her, at least until she had showed the Vicomte into his home and shelter, invading the privacy he had sought.

Christine knew that the Girys must be worried over her sudden disappearance. What would they make of the story she was about to tell them? Would they be able to accept that she had chosen a man who, in society's eyes, was a monster and a murderer? Or would they abide to the views imposed by society, that Christine was insane to leave a rich, handsome Vicomte? Or worse still – would they think that Erik had kidnapped her once again?

Pressing the tip of her fountain pen to the page, Christine began writing the letter in her tidy, cursive hand.

_I know that you must be concerned about my disappearance. No doubt it will become the biggest news in Paris. I hope you can forgive me for causing you both so much worry and unease. I know that I should have told you beforehand, but the situation prevented me from doing so._

_Please believe me when I say that I left Raoul by my own wishes. I went to find Erik the night before my wedding. I had wanted to part with him on better terms than we had the last time I saw him. But when we reunited, I realized that I love him. Up until that moment I had been nothing but a fickle child. I had scorned him as the rest of the world had, even when I had seen the beauty he possessed, the light of his soul. Even when I had known his kindness and had known him as a friend for years. And in that night that I went to find him, I finally grew up. I realized that I love him. I love him for him – for Erik – and not as anything else. Not as the Phantom, or as an angel. As Erik, the man._

_We left Paris late last night, and are currently in a property Erik owns. Meg, I know that you would be surprised at my elopement. My God, that makes it sound so romantic and adventurous! I'm sure that you, dear Meg, will have plenty of fantasies from now on! I know it seems impossible, but believe me when I say that I love him. He is not keeping me here against his will. Rather, he would have gladly allowed me to return to Raoul if I wanted to._

_I know that my decision to leave Raoul is cruel and unfair. I do regret leaving him in such a manner, but what choice do I have? I cannot very well tell him that I am returning to his rival, who has threatened his life! In his eyes, I would, once more, become the Phantom's whore. More importantly, he would never leave us be, or allow Erik to escape the law. Erik would insist upon coming with me to tell Raoul; he is a gentleman in that way, and in many others. And Raoul would do all that he can to reclaim me and convict Erik. I would be a Viscomtesse, trapped by the gilded cage of a life in aristocracy. And I can't imagine what tortures Raoul would inflict upon Erik._

_Erik and I are planning to leave France. I will write to you again as soon as I can._

_Missing you dearly,_

_Christine_

Upon finishing her letter, Christine put down her pen. She remembered how, at one in the morning, they had reached the small house in the countryside. She was so tired that she was asleep on her feet, and had barely seen anything as Erik guided her to her bedroom. She had barely seen the house. She vaguely remembered Erik lifting her sleepy body from horseback and carrying her up the stairs to this room.

Her room was small but sufficient, as it held all the basic necessities. It contained a simple wooden bed, covered with sheets white and spotless. The lack of personality in the room was surprising. Somehow, she had made the assumption that Erik's distinctive style would be in every room of the house. But then again, he probably didn't even use this room, and had given it minimum decoration, as he wasn't bothered with it.

She smiled to herself as she remembered how she had snuck out of the de Chagny mansion to seek out Erik. She had planned to tell him about her wedding the next day – not that he wouldn't have known, with all the publicity surrounding it. But she felt that she had to tell him herself, that she was going to belong to another man the next day. That it was her last night as Christine Daae.

How differently that night had turned out! By leaving the arms of Raoul, even temporarily as she thought, the mist before her eyes had been lifted, and she could finally clearly see her own love for Erik. Erik loved her, loved her more than Raoul ever could. Raoul's gentle love could not hold a candle in comparison to the bright flame of Erik's passionate and intense love. Now in hindsight, Christine could see that even in her brief engagement to Raoul, after the initial period of infatuation, what they had was friendship. _Deep _friendship and affection, yes; but that was all that could be. Their marriage would be based on nothing more than the love of friends. It can never compare to the love she had for Erik, and the love he lavished upon her in return.

Christine knew that she could not have let Raoul touch her on their marriage night, would not let him take her as she had willingly let Erik done so. For weeks she had fretted over her wedding night. The idea of letting a man take her so completely was terrifying. But she had let Erik do so without so much as a second thought! It had felt natural and perfect. In that moment, the rush of fervour of his kisses and the head-spinning giddiness was all that existed. Even being near him inspired more desire in her intimacies with Raoul ever did. Raoul was, in a way, just like her – naively trying to recapture a dream that was long over. If they had stayed as the boy and girl who met at the seaside so many years ago, they may have eventually become lovers, in every sense of the word. But in the years of their separation, they had grown up, and Christine had to leave behind the boy who rescued her scarf from the sea.

But the sea was what she was attracted to. Constant and comforting, but untamed and powerful at the same time, where the society and civilization was but a distant cry, and it was in nature when she was truly free to be herself. When she accepted Raoul's proposal, she was a girl – innocent in the ways of love, battling mixed feelings about the man who was her mentor, and in her confusion she had easily accepted her affection towards Raoul as love.

But she knew that she could never forget her Angel of Music. Not his commanding presence, nor his alluring charisma, and most of all, not his hypnotizing voice and the hauntingly broken look in his eyes as she left him for the final time. She knew that she would never stop regretting that they had parted on such terms. That was why she had ventured into the bowels of the opera house once more on that moonless night. She had not been afraid of the darkness; rather she found it to be her friend, her cloak of invisibility to aid her escape.

Christine ran a hand through her hair, pushing the unruly chestnut curls back from her face momentarily and letting them fall again. What was going to happen to her now? Raoul must have been devastated the previous morning when he woke to find his bride gone from her room. Heart-broken, and his pride damaged. She could imagine Philippe and Laure-Marie chastising him: _I told you, that chorus girl was after nothing but your money. She's had her bit of fun, now she's going to whore herself to another rich man._

Was it true that she was with Raoul only for a bit of fun? No; she had loved him. That much she knew. Their love had been true; sweet and brief and naive, yes. But it was real. Did it make her the villain, the one who left a path of broken hearts behind her? When she had to choose between two men she loved, she chose wrongly and had delivered a crippling blow to Erik. When she realized her mistake, she had had to hurt Raoul in order to mend the damage she had done to Erik. But she had reopened Erik's old scars by abandoning him to his own darkness. The wounds on his soul were deep, deeper even than the ones she gave him. They left scars, and even under her nurture she didn't have confidence that they would disappear completely.

And what of now, when Raoul must have sworn to kill Erik and bring her home back to marry him? Alone, Erik would have had no trouble leaving France. The young Viscomte would merely be a nuisance in preventing his escape, not even a real challenge or opponent. But now she was here, too. She, who was pathetically weak and frail and inexperienced. She, who he had to take care of. She, who was his burden. She, who was his weakness. She, who would be the cause of his ruin.

Once again she had catalyzed a whole series of events. And this time, she had truly burned the bridge in her wake. All she could do now was watch it go up in flames while she continued down the only path that remained before her.


	6. Chapter 5: Let Me In

**A/N: **A HUGE thank you once again to everyone who's reviewed or read the story. I'm sorry that the previous chapter may have been boring, but like I said, it was necessary. This chapter has some of that fluff that you have been asking for.

**Disclaimer: ***Insert creative way of saying that I don't own Phantom*

* * *

**Chapter 5: Let Me In**

_March 1882_

Two timid taps on the door brought Erik's focus back to the room in the house outside of Paris. He reluctantly rose from the working table and opened the door to see Christine. _Who else did you think it would be, fool?_ He chastised himself. "Come in," He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. Blue grey eyes wide with curiosity, she took in her surroundings.

She had assumed the room to be a bedroom; in truth it was more like a workshop. The room was almost twice as large as her room in this house. Paper was piled messily on top of a large desk, some blank, others bearing hand-written marks. A brief glance indicated that there they contained a mixture of musical notes and various artistic, technical or architectural designs. On a wooden working table was a dark blue dress, with a few pins still in it.

"Try it on," he lifted the dress, pulling out the pins. She took the soft material in her hands. It was not unlike the green dress she had on, the one she had been wearing since she snuck out of the de Chagny mansion to seek out Erik. The green dress was, though comfortable, wrinkled and travel-stained. She was glad to have a change of clothes.

Christine tried on the dress in her room. There was a frame under the bodice, a feature of the dress that was unique to Erik's craftsmanship. It served the purpose of a corset without actually putting one on.

_Never put on a corset, especially when you sing. _She recalled his instructions from years ago._ I don't see how you can sing when you are unable to breathe. But if you are ever forced to wear one, wear it as loose as you can._

_But Angel..._

_You don't need a corset to make you look beautiful, my dear. Don't be like those girls who lace themselves up so tight that they can hardly breathe, and they always look sickly and fatigued. Beauty can only comes to those who are natural and healthy. Don't abandon your health, and do __**not**__ be a mindless slave to fashion._

She examined herself in the mirror. As it was with the gowns Erik had made or ordered for her in the past, the dress was the most fitting garment she had ever worn. It was light and comfortable and modest, but somehow highlights her figure. The neckline was a little lower than what she was used to, but then again she didn't have much cleavage to show off anyway. The dress fit her perfectly, as Erik was a master in all knowledge about her, from her favorite flavor of sweets to the exact size of her body.

Of course he would know; a genius like him must know, after spent a whole night with her in his arms! She giggled softly to herself as she remembered the night they had spent intimately with each other. She knew that it was improper and scandalous, but that made it all the more amazing. The fact that society would never accept them – the demon and the angel, the master and the student, the Phantom and his songbird. But, underneath all these labels, they were Erik and Christine – a woman and a man, no more and yet no less.

"Does it fit?" Erik called from outside. He must have heard her soft laughter. There truly was no detail so small that it escaped his notice.

"Yes, I'll be out in a moment." Christine stood for in front of the full-length mirror and attempted to tame her hair, which was even more disheveled from changing out of her old dress and into this one. Deciding this was the best she could do without keeping Erik waiting, she opened the door to let him admire his work on his model.

"So how do you like your latest masterpiece, Monsieur Destler?" She smiled sweetly.

"It's not masterpiece; simply an accessory for my prima donna," he corrected her, teasing her with the hint of a smile. Then in seriousness, he asked. "Any alterations needed?"

She shook her head. "Fits me like a glove."

"Good; then I can make more with the same measurements,"

"You didn't need me to try it on," she pointed out. "You've ordered dresses for me before."

"Well, it never hurts to check," he shrugged.

"You just like seeing me as a model, don't you?" Her lips broke into a teasing grin. "And I'm sure this daring neckline is here for a reason."

"Of course that's not it." he argued, but underneath his pallor she could swear that there was the faintest hint of a blush.

Later that evening, Erik sat alone in his room. He was settled against the headboard of his bed, one of his long legs hanging off the bed and the other, bent at the knee, acted as a surface on which he placed a piece of paper and sketched. While drawing appeared like an idle pastime, one that was a luxury while he was a fugitive with a young woman, it helped him to focus his mind. As his mind ticked at impossible speeds, his pen flickered across the page.

He knew that the most important matter right now was to leave France. While he was not yet a wanted man outside of Paris, news would travel fast, and it was tempting fate to stay in France. He contemplated the viable options; assessed a mental map of Europe, running possibilities through in his mind. Belgium or England would be the fastest way to leave the country, though perhaps Spain would be the most unpredictable. There was also the matter of safety; if he were alone he could leave false trails, take unexpected twists and turns, tackle impossible terrain and weather. But now he had Christine with him, and he knew that she was not as used to hardship as he was.

He could barely believe that she was here with him. It was not so long ago that he had been ready to die alone in his house on the lake. And now he was in a neglected piece of property, with Christine a hallway down from him and prepared to lead a life together with him.

Even in his most absurd fantasies, he had not allowed himself to indulge in such a possibility. He knew that there was no reason that Christine would choose him over the Vicomte, yet she did anyway. He was half prepared for her to announce – of course, for Christine would be too kind to do so bluntly – that her elopement with him was an effect of her pre-wedding nerves, and that she wished to return to be Raoul's wife. Yet as time passed since their night reunion, it seemed increasingly likely that Christine truly wished to stay with him. Erik could barely comprehend it, but he was more than willing to accept it.

Erik glanced down at the page before him and realized that his subconscious had revealed his musing, by inscribing Christine's likeness on the paper. _Focus, Destler! _He admonished himself, turning his mind back to more pressing matters.

After she had bathed, Christine looked through the house for Erik. The door of his bedroom was ajar; she stole a glance to see him reclined on the bed, his long legs stretching out in front of him, one on the bed and the other hanging off. The leg on the bed was bent at the knee, with some papers resting on it. He was holding a pen in his hand, scribbling meditatively on the page – perhaps music for a new piece. His black jacket was off, revealing the white shirt with the top two buttons undone. His tall, lean form was sprawled out, completely relaxed, and she didn't have the heart to draw her artist out of his state of inspiration.

She was about to return to her room when he spoke without looking up. "You can come in, you know."

She was a little annoyed that he had noticed her. "How did you know I was there?" She asked, crossing the almost bare room to the bed. His gaze never left the page he was working on.

"Stealth isn't one of your strengths," when he looked up at her his crooked smile was wry, but his eyes sparkled with concealed warmth. He slid his leg off the bed and straightened his posture in one smooth motion, so that he was at the edge of the bed and the space beside him was freed for Christine.

"Clearly not," she agreed, sitting next to him. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she folded them neatly in her lap. "Unlike you," she couldn't help but add. Her eyes drifted to the paper that he had been scribbling on, now resting in his lap. She had assumed that he was writing music, but he had surprised her again. On the paper, next to a few illegible lines of writing, was a sketch of her. She took the piece from him, studying the drawing. Her hair was down in its luscious curls, a few free strands falling too closely to her eyes. A hand had reached up to brush the unruly locks back. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyebrows raised, eyes widened in an expression of pleasant surprise. Despite being roughly drawn in black ink, each detail was perfect, every plane and curve of her face was a faithful imitation of her features. The natural spontaneity of the moment was perfectly captured in the rounded lines.

"It's not that good," Erik mumbled, embarrassed that she has seen the drawing. He tried taking it back, but she snatched it away from him, out of his reach.

"Not that good?" She turned to him incredulously. "_Not that good_? This is amazing, Erik."

"Give it back; its not one of my better pieces." He made another futile attempt to grab the page without leaning over her.

"Wait!" She held it out of his reach, studying the sketch more closely. Each detail was perfect; she herself didn't realize that her nose ended in a slight curve, nor did she recognize the way her eyebrows arced in such a way. Her hand was petite and slender, as feminine as the gentle curve of her full lips.

"Christine!" Erik wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled. Christine let out a cry of surprise as she lost balance and toppled over, ended in some sort of awkward position with her head on Erik's lap. Blushing, she clambered up and passed the drawing back to him. He folded it up with care and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Some of his hair fell in front of his eyes, and he pushed them back half-heartedly, only to have them rebelliously fall again. Christine had never seen him look younger or more vulnerable than that moment. She had never seen him without his black formal jacket or waistcoat, and now that he had discarded both, it was as though another layer of his many masks were off. The white shirt he wore now hugged and highlighted his form, showing his lean, almost graceful build. Not for the first time, his physique reminded her of some feline predator – graceful and dangerous.

She didn't have the words to comfort him or ask him what was bothering him. So tentatively, she placed a hand on his back. He stiffened at her touch, but relaxed after a second.

"I'm fine," he sighed, straightening, and she removed her hand. "It feels... I don't know how it feels, letting you see things like that." A light crease appeared in the smooth skin of her forehead, urging him to explain. He took that as his cue to continue. "I've never let anyone see my drawings, or hear my music, or study my designs. It's as though I'm allowing you into the deep recesses of my soul, to see my weaknesses."

Christine remained silent, formulating her next words, trying to string her thoughts together to form coherent sentences. "Your work is pure genius, Erik," She said slowly, testing the water to see how far he would let her go. "And I know how hard it is for you to let me see it. But I can promise that I will not despise you, or hate you, for it. I'm ready to know anything you want me to know." He knew then that she was referring to far more than his artistic achievements. She was alluding to something else – his past; his life; every dark shadow in his mind.

Her eyes, the colour of a cloudy sky, stared earnestly into his amber ones, and he saw how she meant every word that she said. Erik had always been gifted with, among many other talents, the skill to tell if someone was lying. Or perhaps it was due to experience, from all those times he had been lied to and betrayed. He knew now, looking into Christine's eyes and her open face that she believed every word she said. And although he knew that she would not be able to keep that promise, he somehow believed her, too.

When he spoke, his voice was steady. "I'll try to let you in. I don't know if I have lost the ability to completely trust in someone, but I will try my best to trust you with everything."

Her heart tugged lightly in appreciation. "I'll always be here, Erik. I will never turn from you, no matter what is it you have done." She squeezed his hand, a gesture that should have been intimately romantic, but it felt more like a comforting touch between friends. And somehow, their conversation had spiraled away from his work to much deeper waters; places that he had not been prepared to explore so early on with her. But maybe this was what trust was: allowing her to steer just as much as he did, even though hated feeling out of control.

Erik was silent for a long time, and Christine wondered whether she had intruded too deep into his shell. "Thank you," he breathed at last. His golden eyes were conflicted, his yearning to let her in warred with decades of defensive instinct. "I don't deserve this... what you have offered... or someone willing to offer it at all." He met her wonderfully clear grey eyes. "I'm not the easiest man to be with, that much I know. What I did last year..." The apology was scrawled over his face. Even with the mask on, his remorse was cutting and tangible. "I'm so sorry for my madness, and the price you had to pay for it."

She shook her head of chestnut curls with a soft smile. "I wouldn't be here if I hadn't forgiven you for them. I hope that you would are willing to start a new life. Leave the darkness behind."

His crooked smile was wry. "I'll endeavor to do so. Christine, I promise you, I _will_ try to be better, for your sake if nothing else."

"Thank you, Erik," She kissed his cheek before rising. _I'm so proud of you. And so, so, grateful._


	7. Chapter 6: Today's The First Day

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed or read the last chapter. I didn't have time to reply to each review this week, but guys... just... wow. I'm SERIOUSLY amazed at how much you guys seem to like this story! Please leave a review. Some more fluff here, and I PROMISE, there will be a large dose of super fluffy fluff next chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Phantom, but you already know that.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Today's The First Day Of The Rest Of Our Lives**

_April 1882_

Apart from his lineage, Raoul de Chagny had always taken pride in his courtesy and his gentlemanly ways. When a woman rejected him, he always accepted it graciously. He may be slightly irked at the refusal, but it didn't injure his ego. He respected the woman's choice in turning him down. He didn't harbor resentment towards any men who did succeed in winning her over.

But that was in the past.

Christine was more than a pretty girl who took a fancy to his good looks and title. He had always wanted to marry her, ever since they first met as children at the seaside. Back then, he was too young to comprehend the unspoken rule of marrying within his own social class. They parted ways when she was nine and he was ten, as she moved to Paris with her ailing father. In the adolescent years that followed, Raoul often wondered about the charming Swedish girl who vanished from his life just as suddenly as she entered it.

As he reached adulthood, those colourful childhood memories of Christine gradually faded. Following the death of his father, Raoul took up responsibilities in his family's affairs. He accompanied Philippe to gatherings, mostly social parties and the occasional business meeting. He met countless women, flirted with half of them – all the ones his own age or younger – but was never inclined to court or marry any of them.

When he met Christine again, she was an aspiring singer. As an actress she was at the bottom of the social ladder, while he, a Vicomte and a de Chagny, no less, was at the top. But seeing her on stage that night – beautiful and radiant – he knew that he had to have her. She brought back into his life their old childhood dream. Only now, she was the troubled maiden of their nursery tales, her life and freedom endangered by a monster. Raoul had been her white knight, the one who saved her from that monster. Everything they dreamed of as children was almost coming true, only a night away from Raoul's grasp, when it all ended abruptly.

The thought of her disappearance made his blood boil. There was no doubt that the Phantom was to blame. He must have snuck into the de Chagny mansion, and spirited Christine away into the night, into his kingdom spun from illusions and deceit. The monster must have been furious that Christine – his protégée, whom he thought was so securely his – had chosen Raoul over himself, and kidnapped her out of spite. Did he honestly think that Christine would choose him, an aged, deformed monster who lived in eternal darkness, over the youth, beauty and wealth that Raoul had and the life in the sun that he could promise Christine? But the Phantom was a madman, and it was doubtless that he had stolen Christine to take revenge on Raoul's besting him.

What he hadn't factored in was Raoul perseverance. Although it had been a month since Christine's disappearance and most of the police had stopped searching for her, Raoul wouldn't stop. He would show that monster what was the consequence of stealing from Raoul de Chagny.

Erik had decided to go to England. Christine didn't care where they went; she just wanted to see the world. Crossing the English Channel to Devon was the quickest way out of France. Their plan was vague – "we'll see how it goes" was the full extent of it. They would travel through England, possibly Scotland and Ireland, then maybe return to continental Europe when the search for the Phantom has quieted.

Their carriage was small and light enough for them to travel quickly and quietly, though the design was elegant enough to fit in a middle-upper class environment. Christine could hardly believe that it was only weeks since they left the city. Not so long ago she was preparing to become a Vicomtesse, and now she was traveling to far-off place with a man hunted by the authorities.

In England, they posed as a married couple on their honeymoon, and no one so much as suspected that Erik was the Phantom. Outside of France the incident was little more than a ghost story, quickly dismissed as rumor and superstition. That first night of their journey, they stayed in an inn in Devon, small but clean and tidy. As soon as the door was closed behind them, they turned at stared at each other. The double bed, with its seemingly innocent white sheets, seemed to mock at them.

"I can take that chair, if you want me to..." Erik began awkwardly, gesturing at the stiff-looking armchair that stood in a corner of the room. After all, he had fallen asleep in worse places, anywhere from at a desk scattered with paper and quills and ink, to a stone floor in Russia in the middle of winter.

"There's no reason for you not to sleep in the bed. We've shared a bed before," Christine tried acting stronger and surer than she felt, but her embarrassment betrayed her by setting her cheeks aflame, and she ended the sentence in a mumble, looking at the ground. She forced herself to meet Erik's eyes. "It's simply pointless for you to sleep in that chair when the bed's large enough for both of us." She announced matter-of-factly. This time, to her pride, she didn't look away and she kept her voice from shaking.

It was easier said than done. Erik lifted one corner of the thick blanket, gesturing for Christine to get onto the bed. She did so and he settled on the opposite side of the bed, both of them lying on the edge, trying to stay as far as they could from each other. However, despite being a double bed, the mattress was not as spacious as they would have liked. Even though they were both lying as far as they could from each other, their backs brushed lightly against each other's.

Christine could sense Erik's unease. His rigid back. His deep breathing purposely even. The slight shifts he made to minimize their contact. She realized that she was doing the same thing. She was as tense and drawn as he was. The last time she spent the night in his arms had felt completely natural, with none of this awkwardness. _To hell with propriety_, she decided. Ignoring society's expectations of what a lady should do – sharing a bed and taking a lover were not deemed ladylike anyway, she reasoned – Christine rolled over and wrapped her arms around Erik's torso, letting his warmth seep through his nightshirt and her chemise.

Erik felt Christine's icy body press against his back "You're freezing." She nodded. _How cold would she be to hold me voluntarily?_ Guilty, Erik rolled over, enveloping her slight body in his arms. She eagerly snuggled up to him. "You should have told me that you're cold."

"You're so warm," she murmured, nestling her head in the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, tucked under his chin. One of her arms came up around his neck. Erik's skin was usually evidently cooler than her own. Until she felt his warmth, she had not realized that her fingers and toes were starting to go numb.

"I'm sorry," the remorse was clear in his voice. As he spoke, she could feel his cool breath ruffle the hair at the top of her head.

"What for?"

"I can't give you even the most basic necessities. I can't even give you warmth and comfort. I'm sorry for everything, for what I've put you through last year. My temper is a force that I have no control over, and I'm sorry that you have been on the receiving end of that. I let my jealousy and madness take me to a point where I resorted to the most defiling behavior. That night after _Don Juan_, Christine, I was honestly on the verge of hurting you, or your boy. You never deserved any of that. I'm sorry for being a beast, for being a monster. I'm sorry for all that I had done against you, that you had suffered because of me."

"Do you think that I still hold a grudge against all that?" Christine asked incredulously. "I'm here of my own free will, Erik! Did you think that I would so willingly marry a man I loathe?" She slid her small hand into the cocoon of his long fingers, guiding his thumb over her ring. "I love you, Erik. And that is enough to undo everything you have done." She said with fervor, palming his cheek. To her disappointment, he casually shifted so that she did not touch the disfigurement.

Stunned, Erik could formulate no reply. Christine seemed to demand none from him. They slipped into silence, neither falling asleep. Erik marveled at the way Christine had freely forgiven him, and at the casual way that she accepted – even welcomed – physical contact with him.

"You are warm?" He broke the silence, maneuvering the topic from himself to her wellbeing. He felt with no little relief that the temperature of her hands had returned to normal, so that he was noticeably cooler than she was.

She nodded against his chest. Then, fearing that he would want to turn around again, she tightened her hold around him. She felt his abdomen rise and fall with a sigh, and he placed a tentative hand on the small of her back. The comfortable silence reminded her once again of their days in the opera house, how she could feel him watching her until she fell asleep, although neither one of them said a word to the other.

In the nights that followed, the awkwardness disappeared.

* * *

Christine was worried. And unsure. And more than anything else, terrified.

She had always been pale, but now she resembled Erik with his corpse-like complexion; her cheeks were worryingly bloodless. Her back ached like an old lady's, as did her feet, and her bosom was so tender that the lightest touch ached. She knew what was going on with her body; of course she did. And every time common sense tried to make her acknowledge the truth, she pushed it deeper into the recess of her mind, refusing to let it speak up in its tremulous voice. She denied it; denied what had happened to her; denied the suspicion that had festered in her for weeks now.

_No_. She steeled her mind. She pushed the thought away yet again with cold determination. It simply couldn't be a possibility. She refused to think the very word that stood for her "condition". It would be fatal. It would become _real_.

She wasn't ready. Erik wasn't ready. They were still on the run. They weren't people who were settled down, with a beautiful house, or a steady job, or even led a safe life. They didn't have a clear future. They didn't have safety. They could not provide for another.

And then there was the problem of age: Christine was barely twenty herself. She was little more than a child. She was weak and dependent and painfully inexperienced. She had her own problems to deal with. She had to mature and grow up and become someone who could stand on her own two feet.

Of course, there was a possibility that all this worrying was for nothing. After all, her condition was merely a suspicion. Not much less than fact, given the symptoms, but still, it was unproven. Christine dared to hope, even if the chance was slim. Perhaps she had missed her monthly bleeding due to stress. Perhaps she was tired because traveling was taking a toll on her delicate health. Perhaps there was a sensible, medical explanation to this all. Perhaps all this worry was for naught.

So, she would wait until she was certain. There was no point in alarming Erik, only to find out that all this was a misunderstanding.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. This would remain her secret for now.


	8. Chapter 7: Entwined Strands of a Melody

******A/N: **Thanks again to every one of you who have read this story. I'm completely blown away by the number of reviews I had for the last chapter!

To those of you who are confused about why Christine knows that she is pregnant so soon after she slept with Erik, about a month has passed since the prologue. So she _would _know that she is expecting! I'm fairly sure that I mentioned it in the last chapter, but it wasn't very obvious. The passing of time is mentioned again in this chapter. By THIS chapter, it has been two months since the prologue. Hope I cleared that up to any confused readers!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Phantom, I'm not Leroux or Kay or ALW, etc etc etc...

* * *

**Chapter 7: Entwined Strands of a Melody**

Christine had always been an early riser. Madame Giry was very strict about her ballerinas' punctuality to their morning practices. So this morning, Erik wasn't surprised that Christine was up before him. But he was surprised that she looked ill. Although her complexion was naturally pale, it now had a pallid and sickly tinge to it, and she looked tired and drawn. "I'm fine." She snapped at him when he opened his mouth to ask if she was all right.

He looked away, embarrassed. Even after two months together, his insecurities were still very much alive. Some days he would be unconvinced that she could love him when he was so wretched. Despite her bad mood, he self-deprecating look upon Erik's face made Christine feel a prick of remorse for her rough retort.

"Honestly, Erik, I'm fine." She repeated, a little less harshly. She sat in front of the mirror and began yanking a brush angrily through her hair. "_Damn_!" She hissed under her breath as the brush caught in her incredibly tangled curls.

Erik slipped on his mask and crossed the room to the vanity. Soundlessly, he extended an open palm. Christine placed the offending brush in it heavily. Taking his place behind her, he gently tugged the brush through the sea of wild curls. "Such vulgar language for a lady…" He quipped, half to himself.

"I don't care." She muttered like a pouting child. She set her elbows on the vanity and rested her chin in her hands. "I've said worse, anyway – and in _your _opera, no less." She added with a pointed look at Erik's reflection in the mirror.

This brought a smirk to his face, although his eyes, focused on her hair, didn't meet hers. "Even Aminta didn't curse."

"No, but there were so many improper lyrics in _The Point of No Return_."

"She was driven by her passion." Suddenly his voice was raw with desire, his mouth skimming over her hair as he brushed it. Her eyes fluttered shut at the feather-light touch of his lips. Her hair smelled faintly of roses. The luscious texture of her rich curls was tantalizing.

Erik's kisses trailed from her hair to her temple, over her cheekbones, down the smooth doll-like features to capture her mouth. Christine twisted her neck to the side, deepening the kiss. Her small hands palmed his face, holding him closer, her desire arousing in harmony with his. Erik's arms encircled her slender frame, and hers began to slip around his neck. The brush clattered to the floor but she barely heard it. His hands moved to cup her breasts. She winced as the lightest contact caused the tender flesh to ache.

And all of a sudden, like the abrupt end to _Don Juan Triumphant_, it was over. Erik was pulling away. His hands, which could play her body like it was an instrument, were picking up the fallen brush. He returned to brushing her hair. Christine resumed her position, with her chin on her hands. It was as though the episode had not happened. Each rhythmic stroke of her hair was devoid of emotion. Impersonal.

"I'm sorry," He whispered after a few moments' silence. Somehow, it was easier to apologize when those pensive eyes weren't piercing into his soul.

"What for?" She was more disappointed than anything else.

"I have to learn to control myself."

Christine rolled her eyes, knowing that he would see it in her reflection, had he only looked up. But he refused to look into the mirror, successfully avoiding her gaze. "Your self-control is better than anyone else's." She argued.

"Not when you're concerned. It's like I'm drunk when I'm being... _intimate_ with you. I lose control, I don't think clearly…" He trailed off, shaking his head. Christine remained silent as she watched the reflection of his talented hands work their magic on her hair.

"There," He announced in a business-like tone, but with a tint of satisfaction, as he pinned up a strand of her hair. Christine studied her reflection. Erik had worked a miracle on her wild curls. Her hair was in a twist, elegant but practical, secured with pins. A few lose strands hung around her face, adding color to her pale cheeks.

"_Masquerade_," He sang softly in that hypnotizing, melodic voice. With his long musician's fingers, he grasped the hood of her traveling cloak and began to pull it carefully over her head. "_Hide your face so the world… will never… find… you_." At the last note, he let the hood drop, resting gently over a rich chocolate sea.

He offered her his hand, and she placed her tiny hand in his palm, just as she had that night when he led her through her dressing room mirror. He helped her to her feet and kissed her knuckles. "Now, we go to London."

* * *

Christine's long, luscious curls cascaded down her back. Her flawless porcelain skin was aglow. In the semi-darkness, her eyes were a deep shade of blue. Her tiny hand was encased by the cocoon of his spidery fingers. Every exquisite, delicate detail of her face was illuminated by the flicker of a dim lantern.

Trees arched above them, blocking out the starlight. It was a new moon tonight; the second since that night when they made love to each other. Christine flushed guiltily at the thought, her hand unconsciously touching her stomach. She did not regret her actions of that night, for how could she regret returning to her angel? But the memory of that night brought to mind another thought, one that she shied away from, unwilling to confront it.

Presently, she whispered to Erik: "Why are we here?" There was almost something magical about the hush of the sparse woods and she did not want to break the spell.

"You'll see soon, it's a place I discovered when I came to England years ago." Erik replied with compressed excitement in his hushed tones. "Are you tired?" He added in gentle concern. "We have been walking for half an hour."

She shook her head, and those curls fell about her face rebelliously. The visible corner of Erik's mouth lifted upward at her unruly hair, and he brushed the disobedient strands from her face.

Erik drew her forward as they reached a break in the trees.

"Ohh...!" Christine's gasp was a delightful sound, wonderful in its innocence. In that moment, everything young and fresh; delicate and beautiful; immortal yet fleeting, was expressed in that single sound from a young woman's lips.

Her eyes widened as she took in the clearing. A lake reached before her, it's surface reflecting the same multitude of stars that glittered in the heavens. Every individual light, every distinct spark, was mirrored in the still waters of the lake. Surrounded by stars, Erik extended a hand to Christine. "Dance with me?"

She smiled demurely, placing her hand in Erik's. He placed his hand at the small of her back, and hers rested on his shoulder. In his melodious tenor, quite unlike the voice of any other mortal, he began singing, and they swayed to the music.

"_Love's a curious thing,_

_It often comes disguised._

_Look at love the wrong way,_

_It goes unrecognized_."

She's heard the song before; he'd been humming and singing it for days now. So she joined him with soprano tones that were his creation as much as the song they now sung.

"_So look with your heart,_

_And not with your eyes._

_A heart understand,_

_A heart never lies_."

Their voices entwined like silken chords running together in a braid, swelling in perfect melodious euphony.

"_Believe what it feels,_

_And trust what it shows._

_Look with your heart,_

_The heart always knows."_

In the clearing, by the lake, under the light of the stars, they danced to the music of their song. At the refrain, Erik twirled Christine around and pulled her close again, banishing the cold rush of air that met him in the absence of her warmth.

"_Love is not always beautiful_

_Not at the start._

_So open your arms,_

_And close your eyes tight._

_Look with your heart,_

_And when it finds love,_

_Your heart will be right._"

They finished the song pressed closer than ever, the melody leaving them with a feeling of serenity. There was not a single thing in this world that could go wrong as long as they were together. They could have sworn that they had been granted the immortality of the angels. Their love was so strong that it protected them from Death's inevitable icy fingers.

Simply standing and holding one another, the moment stretched out, illuminated by the shimmer of starlight. Christine looked as youthful and demure as ever, gazing adoringly up at Erik through long chestnut lashes. Erik's mask seemed to reflect the light of the stars, casting a halo-like glow around his face, while the rest of him was shrouded in shadow. Her Phantom and her Angel.

Christine stood on her tiptoes to plant upon his lips a fleeting kiss. "I love you." The words formed themselves on her lips as they brushed his, slipping out into the night air without passing through her mind.

"I was going to say that before you did." Erik murmured, trying to compress all the emotions that coursed through his blood. They were so intense that if he allowed them to have free reign, he feared that his heart would burst and his body ignite and burn.

Christine crushed herself to his chest, and he held her there, feeling protective of her small, frail body. Their breathing was in harmony, chests rising and falling as one. Once again, Christine's conscience pricked her, reminding her that she wasn't being truthful with Erik. Why did she keep running from the confession? It wasn't something she could hide forever. She eventually had to tell him that she was with child.

_With child. _

She stiffened, her hands on her stomach in reverence. It was real. Giving it a name made it real. It was no longer a thought, a shadow of doubt. It was real. Definite. She was pregnant.

_Pregnant._

"Christine… Christine." She realized that Erik was calling her name; that he had been doing so for a few times. He had framed her face in his deft fingers. Worry was written over the visible portion of his features.

"I'm fine…" She murmured. She seemed to be saying that a lot lately; a sure sign that all was not well.

"You're pale as a ghost," He said, apparent disbelief colouring in his voice.

"You're one to talk, _Opera Ghost_." She taunted in a weak attempt to make a joke out of it. To direct his attention away from her. Anything to delay the inevitable confession. He raised an eyebrow, unamused at her attempt at diversion.

"Erik, _don't_." She turned away, her hands wringing unconsciously.

"Christine…" His eyes narrowed in warning. He caught her shoulder and turned her to face him.

"Fine." She sighed, knowing full well how very stubborn he was, especially when it came to her wellbeing. _This is as good a time to tell him as any_, she convinced herself. She took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. "I am with child."

His eyes widened with fear, one golden orb peering out from under the ever-impassive white mask, which no doubt concealed an expression that mirrored the revealed portion of his face. A blend of panic, shock and fear. She had seen him in the height of his rage and in the lowest pits of his depression. Somehow this heavy silence now, so thick that it formed a wall between them, was worse than both.

When he raised his eyes to her, his had obtained a certain degree of composure over his expression. "_With child_." He repeated after her, endeavoring to sound as collected as he looked. But he failed to banish the hollow timbre in his voice. It terrified her; he had never sounded so out of control before, not even when he was furious at her for removing his mask. Now he sounded... _afraid_, and it frightened her. Erik was always wiser, always dependable, always with the perfect, rational solution. How was she to know what to do when he didn't?

"Was it…" He struggled to get the words out. "That night? When you came back…" She nodded, meeting his gaze with one that was fearful with uncertainty. She looked so scared, so vulnerable, so fragile, that he couldn't resist drawing her into the shelter of his arms. "Oh..." He murmured. "I didn't think that this would happen," He stammered in self-deprecation. "Not after just once that we – Oh, Christine – Forgive me! I'm so sorry…" He rested his forehead against hers.

She placed her hands on his face. Her right one touched his angular cheek; her left one palmed the cold unfeeling mask. "There's nothing to be sorry for." She whispered, her voice choked by tears, tears that she did not know the reason for shedding. She kissed him softly on his thin lips. He did not react for a moment, tasting the savory flavor on his tongue. Then he realized – the tears were both his and hers.

With a sob, he tilted her head up with the crook of his fingers under her chin. They kissed again and again, on the lakeside shimmering with starlight, under the jeweled heavens, tasting their mingled tears.


	9. Chapter 8: Curse and Comfort

**A/N: **I've only written this last night, because there was sort of a big gap between the last chapter and the following one. As my best friend put it eloquently, "weird chapter jumps are weird". So I wrote this chapter, kind of as a bridge between the two. Also, I felt that Erik's feelings towards Christine's pregnancy need to be properly addressed before the following chapter.

**Disclaimer: **What, did you ACTUALLY think that I'm Leroux or Kay or ALW?

* * *

**Chapter 8: Curse and Comfort**

It was a fair day. The cold spell seemed to be waning, and though the air was chilly, the sun, for once, brought watery warmth. In the past days there was a bite in the air, a crisp sting that hit your cheeks and made them tingle. Now the cold was less numbing, instead bringing along something that bordered on warmth, a harbinger of the thawing spring that was to come. Likewise, the dapples of sunlight through the grey clouds were getting more frequent. Standing in a patch of rare sunshine, it took little imagination and sensitivity to feel its warmth, whereas in the past weeks you could strain and stretch all you want without feeling its heat.

Erik had always liked driving through the countryside, avoiding cities and towns where people stared at the strange masked gentleman and the beautiful girl who accompanied him. Today, Christine sat with him in front, wrapped in her thick traveling cloak. Erik wanted her to keep warm, as she had always been weak, catching every flu that went around, no matter the season. He was protective, especially now that he knew she was carrying his child.

Presently, she was dozing. Her head nodded in rhythm to the carriage's rolling, and the loose chestnut curls around her face bounced in harmony. Her head lolled to the side and eventually came to rest at Erik's shoulder. Unaccustomed to anyone letting their guard down around him, he stiffened. As he did so, he tugged on the reins unconsciously and Allegro drew to an obedient halt.

The lurching rhythm of the carriage disturbed, Christine lifted her head, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She raised her grey eyes, so alike to the rainclouds overhead, and looked at Erik with a breathtaking innocence. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing to worry about." He replied coolly in his soothing tenor. "Go back to sleep." His tone was impersonal, lacking the warmth that was usually present when he spoke to her.

Christine's forehead crinkled. She could tell that there was something he was hiding from her. "What is it?" She pressed.

"I said, _nothing_." The harshness cut into her like an icy blade, and she flinched at the unexpected moodiness. A flicker of emotion passed over Erik's eyes; perhaps it was remorse, perhaps it was surprise. But it was gone before Christine could identify it.

"Fine." She shot back. She crossed her arms moodily. Her soft features hardened with determination. The stony expression was her own mask to match Erik's, to hide the hurt that she felt. She tried to tell herself that this was not her doing. It was simply the former Opera Ghost making a return. After all, it was getting easy to forget that Erik was the same man who had bullied and blackmailed the opera house.

But she knew that it was not the reason for his cantankerous mood. This was due to something else.

Erik remained remote for the rest of the day. He didn't snap rudely at her again; he behaved with a manner that was nothing less than civil. But nevertheless, he was not the same loving man she had grown used to in the past two months. He was more of the Opera Ghost than anything else. Of course, Christine had not forgotten that the terrible Phantom still lurked in there, a hidden dimension of Erik. But she could see no reason for it to return and haunt them, not when he had all but cast off that persona.

When they were in the public eye, he would often take her hand, or at the very least stand so close to her that their arms brushed. But today, he refused to come into physical contact with her. He had withdrawn himself and his thoughts into the guarded fortress of his mind. His mind was a deep, murky lake, whose black waters were a region closed off to her.

As the carriage drew to a stop in front of an inn, Erik got off, and held out a hand to assist Christine in doing so. As soon as she was securely on the ground, his hand drew away. Watching his striking figure soundlessly pick up their luggage and walk towards the inn, Christine couldn't help but shake the feeling that she was the cause for his ominous silence.

As soon as they had entered their room and the door was shut behind them, Christine turned to her fiancé. "Erik." Her hands were on her hips. Her hair was in a lightly tousled crown. Her grey eyes were cold and stony.

Erik raised an eyebrow at her, but remained silence.

"In all honesty, Erik," She sighed, exasperated. "What is the matter with you today?"

"Nothing." His response was as flat as the one he gave earlier in the day.

"_Nothing_?" Christine repeated after him. "When something is clearly amiss? I was under the impression that couples tell each other what's bothering them. Tell me what's wrong!" As strong as she sounded, a note of desperation crept into her voice.

Erik gave a weary sigh. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "There is so much that is wrong, Christine."

Her heart softened. Christine sat next to him. He immediately tensed. "Is it about the baby?" She whispered softly.

He nodded. "What if it's like me? What would you do if the child you grow to love after nine months – no, more like ten – is born a devil? What would you do then? Somehow scars and deformities are all the more terrible when they are inflicted upon children. Could you bear looking at a child as malformed as I am? Would you curse his father for passing on this affliction?"

"I would never stop loving you. Even if our child is inflicted as you are, I would love him all the same." She replied. "I love you, don't I? I _will_ love this baby, which we created with our love, even if he bears a deformity ten times worse than yours!" She declared ardently.

"But the rest of the world is still as cruel as ever. Anyone ugly, deformed, _different_, would be subject to torment. You cannot protect it from the entire world!" His distress was evident. "There is no way, save hiding it from them. Keep it in isolation. That's what my mother tried doing; I'm glad that it's turned out so well!" Erik remarked bitterly. "And because of that, I don't know whether I am capable of love. And I am most definitely not capable of caring and nurturing a child."

"You love me." Christine reminded him. "When I was a child, you protected me from the world. Your comfort, your gentle but strict manner, simply the thought of you, was my shield against everything the world had hurled at me. I have faith that you will be the greatest father in the world, if only you would let yourself."

"The child may be born with problems other than the physical impairment. Children with major birth defects rarely survive past infancy; it's nature's own form of mercy, to spare them the pain of a sickly life. The baby could die within its first month. It could be _stillborn_."

"You survived." She challenged him stubbornly. "And you've never been ill; you're probably healthier than anyone else in the world. If this child is anything like his father, he will survive just as well."

Erik looked at her with incredulity. "How is it that you can be so confident? Are you not even the least bit worried?"

Christine chuckled dryly. "I _am_ worried. Everything that you've thought about, every single complication, has probably crossed my mind at some point."

Erik regarded her with a mixture of respect and perplexity. "And yet you can remain optimistic." He studied her, this enigma that he he would never completely understand.

"Perhaps I am childish and silly," She said earnestly. "But I believe – or at least I try to believe – that we can make it through anything. But yes… I _am_ afraid. When I first found out…" She bit her lip nervously. Her gaze, as she turned it to him, showed the same fear and worry that he felt. "I was so afraid. Too afraid to even _think_ about what this would mean, much less tell you this revelation. Believe me; I do have the same worries as you do."

He drew her close to him. He wanted to hold her and let her know that, at least, she was no longer alone in her worry and uncertainty. His embrace was tight, tight enough to hurt. And yet she wanted nothing but for him to hold her closer still, to eliminate all the space between them. She wanted his sure, constant, unyielding comfort. At the same time, she comforted him with her optimism, with her confidence, with her trust in their love.

"I'm sorry that I worry so much." He whispered remorsefully against her curls.

"Then stop worrying." Christine pulled back. She lifted her hand to the unmasked side of his face, gently palming his cheek. She touched her fingers to the corner of his eye, running up to his temple. A teasing smile played at the corner of her mouth. "It'll give you wrinkles."

"I hardly think that worrying is the cause for wrinkles. I would credit that to being a cantankerous old man."

"Erik!" She chastised. "You are not old, my love."

"I'm twice your age, Christine."

Christine laughed; a bubbling spring of mirth. "Would you prefer to be a _boy_ like Raoul?" The look of disgust that dominated Erik's features earned him another peal of her laughter. "No; I did not think so!"

"You insolent girl." Erik growled playfully. He pushed Christine, still giggling, onto her back. He propped himself above her on his elbows. His face, hovering above hers, was only a kiss's breadth away. "I think you deserve to be thoroughly punished."

"Oh?" She smirked coyly. "And how will you set about to do that?" She challenged. In response, Erik lowered his head and kissed her hungrily. He had spent all day without her touch, and even the brief withdrawal left him craving her all the more. The little moan she made at the back of her throat was an encouragement for him to continue. As Erik pulled back, he saw the acute lust in Christine's stormy eyes, mirroring the all-consuming heat that threatened to overpower his own senses. "That was hardly adequate punishment." She said a little breathlessly.

"Then perhaps I should continue." Erik pressed his lips to hers again. "To make sure you learn your lesson." He gave in to his desire for her, ravishing her mouth and face with kisses. They grew deeper, more passionate, yet both of them seemed to be content with simply sharing heated kisses, at least for now. The hard material of the mask was a hindering barrier between their skin. Erik stopped their activities momentarily, hoping to remove the mask.

As he shifted slightly away from her, Christine's hand moved to his cravat, fumbling to pull the material from his neck. Her lips created a trail from beneath his earlobe down the side of his neck. "No, Christine –" With a great deal of willpower, he forcibly removed himself from her arms. The look on her face was of such disappointment that he almost gave in and allowed her to have her way with him.

"We _shouldn't_." He explained. "Last time, it was in a moment of passion and we both lost control. Now, I don't want to take you again until I have every right to do so."

Christine sat up to face him. "You do…" She said plaintively.

He fixed her in his golden gaze, magnificent as a tiger's. "_Marriage_, Christine."

She paused, and nodded in understanding. "When?" She asked simply.

"Not until we get to London." Erik said matter-of-factly. He straightened his jacket and fixed his cravat. "We should arrive in a few days. Then I hope to acquire a house…"

"You worry too much." Christine echoed her earlier words, before pressing a delicate kiss to his lips.


	10. Chapter 9: Believe In Love

**Disclaimer: **The only things I own are the plot and my OCs (who will be making an appearance in this chapter)

* * *

**Chapter 9: Believe In Love**

Darkness was descending upon London as Erik and Christine entered it. The carriage rolled over cobblestone roads as Erik steered Allegro through the centre of the city, along the bank of the Thames. Christine was filled with energy as twilight set in on the city. In some ways it was like Paris, a metropolis. At the same time, it could not be more different.

The colours Christine had associated with Paris were light pastel colours and the reflective sheen of metals. London, on the other hand, was all shades of gray. Covering the indigo dusk sky was a layer, or rather, multiple layers, of soot and black smoke, which billowed from everywhere. Homes, factories, and virtually every building sported a chimney that contributed to the thick smog that hung in the atmosphere. The pollution in the air was almost tangible on her tongue.

But she found herself fascinated with the hustle and bustle around them. Had she been away from a city for so long that she had forgotten what it was like? The streets of London seemed so much livelier than the boulevards of Paris. Carriages, pedestrians and men on horseback appeared to move on the streets without any order whatsoever. The clamor of sounds swelled and flowed around her, rising in a raucous din. A chorus of voices, all shouting and speaking at once in English, spoken with a variety of accents. The gentle yet powerful sound of the Thames, its waves lapping the shore. The noisy rattle of wheels and hooves on cobblestoned roads.

She turned to Erik, who was driving them through this whirlwind of activity without acknowledging it. Even in the middle of a crowd he appeared to be isolated from it, occupying a bubble all on his own. "You've been here before, haven't you?" She asked him.

"Yes," He replied with an impassiveness that could almost be passed for uncaring, save the warmth that punctuated his voice whenever he spoke to her. "It was many years ago, though; not long before I settled in Paris." He looked at her and a small smile appeared on the unconcealed corner of his mouth. Christine was absolutely endearing as she peered anxiously around the city, trying to take in everything at once. Her curiosity, although it was her curse, was also a gift which held utmost value. The light of curiosity illuminated Christine's gray eyes. "My dear, we will spend quite a while in this city. There is no rush for you to try committing this all to memory." He said fondly.

She returned a bashful look, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ear. She was so utterly beautiful. In the dimness of the twilit street, she seemed to glow with a radiance all her own.

"London is very active in its other arts. There are several art galleries in the city; there is so much I can teach you about art! And the architecture is breathtaking." Erik pointed to the intricate gothic designs on a nearby building. "I've always been partial to the gothic style."

"What about the opera houses?" She pressed. "You have commended them several times… can we watch an opera sometime?" Her face glowed with child-like excitement.

"Of course, _mon cherie_." He agreed. "And it is also a great opportunity for your career. Your voice will bring people from all over Europe to London, just to hear the voice of an angel!"

"Yes!" She agreed, laughing merrily at this notion of a bright future with her on stage. "And of course you must write more music; arias and duets and operas. Your spirit and my voice, in one combined."

"Everything you want, Christine."

* * *

Shortly after arriving in the city, Erik had acquired a house in one of the quiet areas just outside London. It had once been the home of an elderly, removed member of the nobility. Since his recent death it had been left vacant, slightly out of order. The exterior was stately, with grand designs, but the mansion was simplistic enough to have the warmth of a home. There were large windows that looked out over the river on one side, and the grounds on the other. He had made plans for the renovation of the interior. The mansion would be fit for living in another month.

The ground floor was a place for formal greeting and company, with the parlor, the drawing room, dining room and kitchens. The third floor was Christine and Erik's bedroom, Erik's study (little used as it was) and no small number of spare rooms. The one adjacent to the master bedroom was destined to become the nursery. And the second floor was the one which the couple spent the majority of their time. The music room, with a grand piano still in it, was where Erik would occupy for hours at a time. And the adjoining room was a huge library. Christine had been thrilled at the volumes that sat on the shelves. Some were so old that their spines were cracked and their pages yellowed. Their apparent fragility implied that they must be handled with utmost care.

The grounds of the property, though modest in size for a member of the nobility, were large, containing mostly woodland. There were several wide fields for keeping horses, as well as an airy stable. A smaller structure that served as a staff's quarters lay a small distance away from the main building, where they would most definitely be left unused. At half an hour's journey away from London, the mansion was distant enough from the city that it offered a quiet calm. It was near a couple of smaller villages, but distanced enough from them that it had no neighbors.

Until the renovation was complete, they would live in a hotel in the city. Unlike the modest inns they had stayed in throughout their journey from France, this one was much grander and luxuriant. Erik was a wealthy man – perhaps even more affluent than the Vicomte. The high-end accommodation was by no means unaffordable.

A few nights after their arrival in London, Christine and Erik went out for dinner at a costly restaurant. Christine's hand on Erik's arm, they looked like any other married couple out for the night. Erik could perceive a definite glow around Christine, as if she were an angel whose very skin shimmered. Though only noticeable to those whose eyes lingered on her waist, the swell in her stomach was now visible, evidence that she was with child.

It was difficult to imagine that a creature, a child – _his_ child – was now stirring in her. Christine was ecstatic about it, in the fashion that was truly her. She was always devoted and passionate to the things she loved, and Erik could not imagine a world where she would not love her unborn child. She had wanted to be a mother, and in his own way, Erik was happy for her.

But his worries outweighed his joy by far. He knew as well as Christine that the timing for her pregnancy was less than ideal. They were not legally married yet. Sworn their love for the other again and again, yes; but marriage, with a wedding ceremony and vows and the exchange of rings that proved their bond to each other, was yet to come. The prospect of parenthood had always been at a safe, unreachable distance. He had never before contemplated the idea of himself as a father. He would be content forever to simply have Christine.

Children was something he stayed away from as a general rule, with the then ten-year-old Christine being the obvious exception to that. He knew the damage he could cause to a child. He did not know how to love them, or to care for them, or to protect them. But what worried him even more so than what he could not give to his child was what he may give to them. His deformity. There was always the chance that his birth defect would be passed on. For a child as deformed as he was, the chances of surviving past infancy were incredibly slim. Watching her baby die soon after birth would break Christine. And he feared that it would break him.

Presently, he and Christine had barely settled into a table near the back of the restaurant when a man in his mid fifties approached them. His hair, light brown in color with grey at the roots, was styled in a slightly out dated way, something that would have been fashionable maybe half a decade earlier. His eyes twinkled in a lightly tanned face, behind gold-rimmed glasses. Overall he was mediocrely handsome, in a plain, unmemorable way.

"Erik Destler?" The surprise in his voice was evident.

"Flavio Morino," Erik stood, clapping the older man on the shoulder. He spoke in flawless Italian: "Allow me to introduce my fiancee, Christine Daae."

"Daae... the girl who caused quite a scandal in Paris?" Despite his words, Flavio's smile was warm and genuine, as though he approved of her actions. He took her hand in his and kissed its back. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame."

"The pleasure is mine." Christine replied with easy grace. Her Italian was fluent, much to her pride. She was glad that Erik had taught her several Italian operas. At the time she had hated learning a new language, but now it was definitely proving to be useful.

Flavio sat into a chair by Erik's side, despite the fact that he had not been invited to join them. He earned a glare from Erik, who moved closer to Christine in an almost protective manner.

"I met Flavio in Rome, twenty years ago." Erik explained to Christine. "I was young, barely even a man. He was a traveling doctor, on his way home to Venice, and I accompanied him. He is one of the few men in the world who do not judge me for how I look." In his eyes was the rare look of admiration and genuine fondness.

"As a doctor I have seen a lot. Erik is not the only one who suffers from unfortunate defections since birth." Flavio shrugged in nonchalance. Christine could understand Erik's respect for him. It stemmed from gratitude, as Flavio did not judge him by the face that he had been born with.

"So, Flavio," Erik took the chance of the other man's silence to change the topic. "Anyone important on your life?"

"Not a _woman_, if that is what you're implying." Flavio muttered almost condescendingly. "You know that I have vowed never to lose myself like that. But I do have an apprentice, Edward. He's been with me since he was ten. He _is _useful, I suppose." Flavio sipped his wine and studied the dark red liquid. "So Paris is where you chose to stay? And no word from you at all, for twelve years!"

"I have written you, during my time there." Erik protested.

"Oh yes, of course you have – for no longer than the first four months!" Flavio retorted. "Then you abandoned the letters; I supposed you must have moved away, because staying in one place was never quite very you. You are quite often taken prey by wanderlust."

"I was distracted," Erik said defensively.

"You're always distracted."

"I took on a protégée and was busy fulfilling my role as a teacher."

"You never had the patience to teach," Flavio raised an eyebrow in semi-disbelief.

Erik simply shrugged. "She was talented and obedient and quick to learn." He put an arm around Christine's waist. "The best student I could have asked for." She blushed at his compliment.

"_Oh_," Flavio's eyes widened in understanding. "Then it's no wonder that Mademoiselle Daae has the voice of an angel."

"My greatest creation," His pride was evident.

"Any more surprises, Erik?" Flavio asked. Erik shrugged nonchalantly. "In that case I don't suppose that you have anything to do with the Opera Ghost then?"

"You say that like you've already decided that it's my fault the Opera Garnier was haunted."

"With you being in the same city? The chances of you having nothing to do with it are incredibly slim, you must admit." A smirk formed on the older man's face.

"A man has to earn his living somehow, doesn't he?" A devious light glinted in Erik's golden eyes.

"Of course, and terrorizing opera house managers is just another respectable profession," Flavio remarked. "Attractive to the ladies, no?" He tipped his head towards Christine."

"We wouldn't have met otherwise," Christine argued. "He taught me to sing while I was only a chorus girl at the opera. He gave me my voice and helped me to remember my love for music."

"Well, I never thought that there would be a woman who would allow herself to marry him."

"People are superficial; I've learned that appearances can be deceiving," She answered with easy grace.

"What about all that he has done?" Flavio prompted. An ominous shadow descended over his face. "Do you know what his hands are capable of? What blood they have spilt, how they have caused pain as willingly as they have given you pleasure?"

"Yes." Christine answered, her voice taking on a haughty edge. She felt the pressure of Erik's hand on the small of her back. "I also know that they are capable of writing the most beautiful pieces of music, that could only be the creation of an angel."

Flavio leaned back, his demeanor suddenly becoming relaxed. The sinister glower was gone without a trace. "You've found yourself a perfect girl, Destler." He commented lightly. "How on earth did you manage to woo her?"

"He didn't 'woo' me; I've simply always loved him," She answered coolly, her head held high. Erik's hand brushed hers lightly and she looked up at him to meet his eyes of molten gold. Pride and gratitude sparkled in the topaz depths. Unprepared for the intensity of emotion in his eyes, Christine's gaze dropped to their joint hands for a moment, and almost immediately raised again to lock with his eyes. _I know_. She let a brief smile flicker onto her lips. He returned one of his own.

Flavio was studying at the pair with interest. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle Daae, but you _are _pregnant, aren't you?"

She felt her cheeks heat up. Erik slapped the table. "You know better than to ask personal questions like that. That was exceptionally rude, even from you." He growled protectively. Christine could sense the Opera Ghost simmering just under the surface.

The other man shrugged, not intimidated in the slightest. "I'm a doctor, Erik. I know the signs of pregnancy."

"Then there was no need to ask, was there?" Erik's eyes were narrowing into dangerous golden slits, his voice a threatening hiss. He looked uncannily like a tiger, crouched and ready to defend himself against an attacker.

"Knowing you, she probably hasn't seen a doctor yet; she needs medical attention, and you know it."

"I would ask for your _medical advice_ when I need it," Angry sarcasm laced every word.

"Is that why you're marrying her? Because she's carrying your spawn?" Contempt filled Flavio's voice. "I'm not surprised; you never take responsibility until it's forced on you."

"Erik's been planning our wedding for a long time; my pregnancy has nothing to do with it." Christine butted in firmly, her gray eyes blazing with cold fire.

"Christine –" Erik began.

"Don't you dare to tell me to stay out of this; it's my fiancé he's insulting," She rounded on him fiercely.

Flavor inclined his head. "In that case, my apologies." But his eyes suggested that he felt differently.

"Apology accepted." Christine replied coldly.

To Christine's surprise, her outburst to Flavio's improper question was not followed by an awkward, icy silence. Both men appeared to be unfazed by the incident, as though it were a common occurrence. It was obvious that the friendship between these two men, despite Erik's reluctance to give it the name, was strong and close.

Erik even inquired about Flavio's romantic pursuits. "Did you court anyone after that girl from Florence – Gianna, was it not?"

Flavio's eyes lit up in anger. "Court her I did, despite my family's disapproval. You know that I come from a prestigious and well-known family, they couldn't believe that I wanted to marry a low-born girl who worked in a nightclub. They threatened to disown me if I insisted on marrying Gianna, but I wouldn't call off our engagement because I was so blinded by love." He spat the word out with contempt. "They disowned me, and I worked hard to make my living as a doctor, despite my lack of experience and my meager pay, I gave everything I had to provide for her. I bought her everything she wanted - jewelry, dresses, any desire, however expensive, was given to her.

"And then, a few short days before the wedding – and it was to be a huge, elaborate, magnificent wedding! – she left me, without so much as an explanation or a goodbye. I had already paid for all the expenses, and I was broke from supporting her extravagant lifestyle.

"She just left me, ran off with a man she barely knew. He was rich, I do not doubt it, because Gianna had always cared for materialistic things. It was because of her poor background. She had spent the majority of her life seeing expensive things, and could only admire them from afar because she could not afford them. I sometimes believe that the only reason she even allowed me to court her was because of my family's money. She knew that I would spend everything I had on her, so she took advantage of that.

"I gave up everything for her – my family, my money, my entire inheritance. And she left me with nothing. I have sworn off love, because it had brought me nothing but despair." His eyes were stony with hatred for the woman who had made him a blind fool in his love for her. "I will not love again, because I have learned my lesson. Love is a hopeless pursuit, but it makes us mad with it. The only way I can keep my head clear is if I never love again."

Erik nodded, his expression as unreadable as ever. Christine slipped her hand, wanting to feel his fingers entwine with hers as a promise that he would not give up on love. The gentle pressure which she felt in return was a reassurance that he believed love was worth it.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm sorry that this chapter was a bit dull. But remember, the absence of the light is a necessary part. And yes, that IS a lyric from 93 Million Miles by Jason Mraz. This is a bit of a filler chapter, but I PROMISE that it is absolutely necessary to the story later on!

Also, the next chapter will be primarily fluff, to make up for the dullness of this one.


	11. Chapter 10: This Undying Love

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter 10: This Undying Love**

In front of the restaurant, Erik and Flavio shook hands, and Flavio kissed Christine's hand before parting ways. Christine threaded her arm through Erik's, making their way down past closed shops. They strolled down a narrow street illuminated by the foggy light of gas lamps, towards the direction of their hotel.

Erik's arms, wiry but strong, enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. "I'm so proud of you." There was no space between them. Her arms rested around his waist. "You were so strong, you didn't submit to him."

She chuckled, tilting her head back so that their noses brushed. "I learned from the best."

He echoed her laugh with one of his own. "Yes, you did." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She smelled his musky scent as he exhaled. She stood on tiptoe, presenting him with a brief, fleeting kiss. He groaned as she pulled away too soon. "Control yourself, Erik." She teased, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Chuckling, he laced his fingers with hers and continued down the path. "By the way, when you snapped at me…" She looked up him with dread. He smiled, slightly amused at her pout. "I was just going to tell you that Flavio never watches his mouth. The great fool bursts out the first thing that comes to mind. He hardly means what he says."

"Oh…" She bit her lip sheepishly. "It's just that you're so protective of me, I can't help it that I'm protective of you, too. Back at the opera house, when they were talking about you, saying that you're a demon, evil incarnate, a madman… I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to have nothing to do with them whatsoever." She said with undiluted regret and pent up frustration. Erik was silent, but his eyes communicated his admiration and gratitude.

As soon as she stepped into their hotel room, Christine flopped onto the double bed unceremoniously. "My feet hurt so much." She complained, kicking off one of her heels and bringing her foot up to the bed. She rubbed an increasingly sore foot.

"Sit back against the headboard." Erik instructed, and she obliged, stretching her legs out. He took one ankle in each hand and began to massage them deftly with his skillful fingers. She groaned in pleasure as the stiff muscles loosened up.

"Do you think we'll be having a son or a daughter?" Erik approached the subject timidly.

Christine's answer was immediate: "A son."

"How are you so certain?" Erik retorted lightly.

"Woman's instinct, perhaps?" She chuckled. "I don't know. Perhaps…" A pink blush crept involuntarily onto her cheeks. "I should like to name a boy Gustave, after my father. Gustave Erik Destler." She felt foolish voicing her thoughts so. She sighed as Erik deftly eased the pressure in her swelling feet. "You are a godsend, Erik. Who knew it was this much work to carry a child?" He was silent, his forehead creased forebodingly.

"Erik?" She inquired warily. He lifted his eyes, looking expectantly at her. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," He sighed. His golden eyes were filled with self-reproach. "That my baby is causing you this pain."

"Its not your fault." Christine rolled her eyes at his typical guilt over something out of his control. "My mother had a difficult pregnancy with me. We have the same build; she was too small and slight to carry a child properly." As soon as she said the words she regretted them. Comparing herself to her mother, who died in childbirth, would do nothing to ease Erik's guilt or worry.

The massaging ceased. He was suddenly on the bed with her. "You're not her, Christine." He mumbled into the sea of her curls. "You're stronger than she was. You _will _survive childbirth." He was trying to reassure himself as much as her. His arms were desperate, as though he could physically hold her to this life. She eagerly accepted his possessive arms.

She was not blind or ignorant to the truth, to that dreadful possibility. She simply didn't want to face the fact that, like her mother before her, the birth of her child may be synonymous with her own death. She wrapped her willowy arms loosely around Erik's lean torso, taking comfort from his touch, his presence. "That won't happen to me," She vowed, trying to sound convincing.

"You can't promise that," He whispered. "You don't know what's going to happen." He pressed his lips to her forehead.

Christine savored the feeling of his lingering kiss on her skin. After a few moments of silence, she asked: "Am I your best friend, just as you are mine?"

"Of course, my angel." Erik's reply was sincere, though tinged with confusion.

"Then can you promise me the honesty that comes with friendship?"

Erik took a deep breath, mentally weighing the consequences of this decision. Christine pressed on. "You don't have to lie to me to protect me. I'm strong enough, and _old_ enough, to know the truth."

Another deep breath. "I will never lie to you again." He swore.

"Then can you tell me, truthfully, whether you want this child or not?" Christine's grey eyes, enchanting and imploring, stared into his from her open, vulnerable, painfully _young _face.

"Yes, Christine." Erik answered truthfully. "I want a child that we have created out of love. But I'm also terrified." He admitted in a fearful whisper. "I'm afraid of losing you. It won't be fair if you weren't here to witness our child's life. Childbirth has always been a serious risk in the health and longevity of women. What would I do – what would I do if you died…?"

He had never been so open to her, not when dealing with his fears and his weaknesses. His honesty warmed her to the heart. Touched by his heartfelt response, she felt unexpected tears prick her eyes

"What's wrong?" He looked at her, golden eyes filled with worry. She turned, curling into his embrace, tightening her hold on him. "What have I done to make you so sad?" He murmured in self-reproach, stroking her curls helplessly.

"I'm not sad," She protested weakly. "I'm happy." She clarified with a watery smile.

"The thought of the suffering your death would cause me – that amuses you?" Erik asked incredulously, only half joking. He waited in a confused silence for her to elaborate. When it was clear that she wouldn't, he just held her, waiting for her tears to subside, rocking her gently.

"I'm sorry," She sniffed, a few tears still escaping from her eyes like raindrops from a heavy cloud. "I just – I can't control it…"

"It's your hormones." He murmured. "For the baby." He rubbed her back, an unconscious movement. It was soothing, and she relaxed into his embrace.

"I'm sorry," She whispered again. Teardrops clung to her lashes like dew on a misty morning.

"And I repeat, not your fault," He wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, letting his fingers linger on her face.

"Thank you for being here." She whispered with a rueful smile. "For putting up with how temperamental I've been lately."

"It's because I love you." His gaze was incredibly tender as he looked down at the woman in his arms. She felt she could melt in those warm topaz eyes.

Her smile turned warm as she returned that loving look. "I know." She answered softly. "Thank you for being in love with me." Her forehead crinkled. "What Flavio said about Gianna, and about love…"

Erik sighed for his friend's renouncement of love. "He really did love Gianna. He was only a boy, he naively gave his whole heart with no restraint. His family was against their marriage. He literally gave everything to thatwoman, but in the end she had lied to him, manipulated his emotions."

Christine nodded sympathetically. "I feel sorry for him. But how can you give up on love?" She met Erik's eyes with a troubled gaze. She was a romantic at heart; she believed in happy endings. It was

frightening and unnerving for a nineteen year old girl to have someone completely deride her ideals and beliefs.

Erik shook his head. "You haven't been there; you wouldn't understand."

"Try to explain." She pressed.

"When you've been hurt by love, you instinctively want to protect yourself from further harm. The only way to stop yourself from falling again is to completely reject love." Erik's words were met with a silence. He looked down at Christine to see a distressed expression on her face. "Was is it?" He asked softly.

"Was this how you felt?" She asked guiltily. "When I left."

He was taken aback for a moment. "Yes." He answered slowly. "But also no." He added. "When I first fell in love with you, I knew that you would be my only. When you left…" A chill ran down his spine involuntarily at the memory of that dark period. The only light in his life had disappeared, and he was thrown back to the darkness in which he came from. But like the prisoners in Plato's cave, once he had glimpsed the light, it was impossible to be content with darkness. He had been blinded – whether by the light or by darkness, he did not know.

Feeling the fearful shiver that possessed him for a moment, Christine pressed closer to him, wrapping her arms securely around him. "I tried to forget about you. I tried to stop loving you. But I couldn't. When Gianna left, Flavio hated her." Erik gave a dark chuckle. "Hating you would have been so much easier, so much less painful. But no; I loved you. So I hated that I loved, that I would put myself in such a vulnerable position, allow another person to have such a powerful hold over me. I knew that I would never love again. But all that while, I kept on loving you. Every beat of my heart was for you."

"Love is a smoke made with the fumes of sighs," Christine quoted in a whisper. "A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet." She closed her eyes and kissed the hollow at the base of Erik's throat. She heard his soft sigh of contentment, felt his throat relax at the touch of her lips.

"I'm sorry for hurting you." She promised to herself that as long as she lived, she would never let him get hurt again. And she will prove to that she would love him with the same undying love he gave to her.

* * *

**A/N: **I hoped you liked that fluff, cause I did. Which is why the next chapter will be the **wedding chapter** (YAY! :D)

I'm one review away from 100! I'm going to give my 100th reviewer will get a preview of the next chapter. I'll also give a preview to the two runner-ups. So, the first THREE people to leave a review on THIS chapter will get the preview of THE WEDDING. Guest reviewers who want to get the preview, please leave an email address/other way to message you, or I won't be able to send the preview to you.


	12. Chapter 11: I Have Died Everyday

**Disclaimer: **It's fairly obvious that I'm nowhere near as good a writer as Kay is, nowhere near as old as Leroux, nowhere near as talented as ALW.

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**Chapter 11: I Have Died Everyday Waiting For You**

"I want my dress to flow behind me, and a dozen bridesmaids to carry the train!" A six-year-old Christine gushed. She twirled around, and her blue dress swirled around her. Her curls, laden with white flowers, fanned around her like a chocolate halo.

"A dozen, Little Lotte?" Raoul de Chagny laughed, taking enjoyment from humouring the younger girl. He was an extremely handsome boy, with his dark blond hair that hung in his baby blue eyes, and the fair complexion that was ever so lightly tanned from time spent in the sun. At the naïve age of eight, he was yet too young to recognize his parents' and brother's disdain for his befriending a simple violinist's daughter.

"A dozen!" She giggled. Her cheeks flushed an adorable pink. "And Papa would play the violin." She smiled, dimpling with all the fresh prettiness of a wildflower.

"And who would be the one waiting at the alter?" Even though he knew the answer, Raoul couldn't help but ask.

"You, Raoul." Christine answered bashfully. "You're my Prince Charming."

When Christine was a child, living with her father by the sea, she always thought that she would have a big white wedding, and Raoul would be the one she married.

How different reality was proving to be! She didn't walk down the aisle with pink tulips and carnations. Instead she clutched a bouquet of roses, blood red and snow white, in her hand. Her dress, contrary to the elaborate gown of frills and lace in her childhood daydreams, was simple and elegant, not unlike the one she had worn the night in Erik's home, the night she made her drastic choice to leave him.

Today, there had been no ceremonious march down the aisle, no father giving her hand to her husband-to-be, no Prince Charming waiting at the alter, no army of bridesmaids waiting on her.

No, it was just her, and Erik. Her Angel.

Erik's love was tangible as he tenderly took her hands in his own gloved ones. She fought the lump in her throat and the pricking behind her eyes, trying to refrain from crying. Christine barely registered that Erik had started to recite the vows.

"I, Erik Destler, take you, Christine Daae, to be my lawfully wedded wife," A real, living bride! "To have and to hold," _Feeling Christine's soft body curled next to his that first night together. _"From this day forward," _Knowing that he would have the pleasure, the privilege, of holding her every night from now on. _"For better, for worse," _Although she had broken both their hearts over and over she had returned to him in the end,. _"For richer, for poorer," _He would give her no less than what she deserved._ "In sickness and in health,"_ The adorable blush that painted her ivory skin pink._ "Until death do us part." _The corpse who fell in love with the immortal angel._

His golden eyes glowed brightly at her, and she gazed back into them with the same intensity as she began the vows that she had made time and time again these past three months, in one form or another. But this time, there would be no backward glances, no chance to go back on her word. This time, her words would bind her life to his forever.

"I, Christine Daae, take you, Erik Destler, to be my lawfully wedded husband," _How had she blinded herself to her feelings for so long before admitting to her heart? _"To have and to hold," _His strong arms, her protection and her strength._ "From this day forward," _Waking up to his delicate kiss every morning. _"For better, for worse," _The red rose that would inevitably await her after every performance._ "For richer, for poorer," _Gone was the materialistic child who had fallen in love with a boy's beauty._ "In sickness and in health," _How he nursed her back to health whenever she fell ill, with equal measures of strict instruction and tender concern._ "Until death do us part." _His real, living bride!_

Rings were exchanged, sealing their fate, binding them ever closer.

"You may kiss the bride," Erik lifted the thin veil with trembling hands and laid it over the back of her head, revealing her beautiful features. His kissed her soft and slow, his misshapen lips silencing her sigh.

As soon as the ceremony was over, he led her out of the small church. The priest asked no questions, especially keeping his eyes off the gentle curve of the young woman's stomach; many who had a whirlwind courtship and a spur-of-the-moment wedding came to this chapel, especially those who valued their anonymity and privacy. He knew better than to pry, especially with the handsome sum he had been paid.

Once they were out in the street, in the cool evening air, Christine was swept into Erik's arms once more. His kiss was passionate now, his love pouring into her. His hands were on her hips as he lifted her, and hers clutched his lapels. She ended their heated kisses with a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. "Let's go home," She whispered in his ear with thinly veiled impatience. He met her sultry gaze and grinned crookedly, his eyes gleaming in anticipation for their long-awaited wedding night.

* * *

It was through the large mahogany front doors of their new house that Erik carried his bride. Christine's mouth was on his in one long kiss, her arms wrapped around his neck. In the bedroom, he finally set her down on the four-poster bed. They paused their heated kisses; as soon as their eyes met their lust was replaced by something softer, gentler, and yet more powerful. Her chest heaving, Christine slowly stood, standing before her husband. He swallowed nervously; although they had slept together before, three months ago, it had happened in a moment of passion. This, their wedding night, would be different.

Without breaking their gaze, Christine reached slowly behind her back and unhooked the clasps of her dress. The bodice immediately loosened. The off-shoulder straps slid halfway down her arms. Erik tentatively placed his hands on her shoulders. She swallowed. The awkwardness of the situation was overwhelming. His fingers found the shoulder straps, and his eyebrows rose by a fraction. The tender look in his eyes changed into a question: _is this alright?_ She gave him a little encouraging smile, trying to suppress her anxiety. With all the shyness of a boy, he slipped the straps from her shoulders and the gown pooled around her feet. She was wearing only her undergarments, pure white against her creamy skin. Erik's gaze turned reprimanding when he saw the corset. With a rueful half-smile, Christine reached behind her once again to undo the strings of her corset. Finding that she could not unlace it as easily as she did the dress, she wrinkled her forehead in frustration.

He smirked, amused by her adorable pout, and motioned with his finger for her to turn around. She did so silently, presenting him with her back. He unlaced her corset with gentleness, coaxing the strings out from their tight laces and letting the garment expand naturally from its tight binding. "Never wear a corset again," He whispered in that velvety, ethereal voice. "Do you know what this can do to your ribs and lungs? Not to mention the baby…"

"I wanted to look my best for our wedding," She mumbled feebly. The reason, which was perfectly rational in her mind, now sounded pathetic even to herself.

He loosened the final string, letting the corset rest loosely around her torso. With the tips of his fingers, he touched her opposite cheek, beckoning her to turn. She did; her face first to meet his gaze, rosy lips slightly parted. "Corset or not, you will always be the most beautiful woman in a room."

"Then you look every inch my partner," She answered boldly, gripping one corner of his mask and pulling it up. An adoring look softened her features as she took in his deformity with a newly gained right to examine it. Maskless before her, with her eyes exploring that previously unknown terrain, he felt as though he were naked. Every indent and bulge; every unnatural twist; every grotesque detail illuminated in the candlelight. He felt completely defenseless and vulnerable.

And then, miraculously, she smiled. She reached up and cupped his cheek in her palm. She stood on her tiptoes, stretching to her full height to kiss him on the lips. It was slow and lingering, but both of them were eager to complete the ritual that would forever seal the bond that made them husband and wife.

They made music that night: amorous, passionate arias of love and lust, unaccompanied by instruments save each other's voice. Their love was a heavenly composition, and the violin and the cello played identical melodies, starting and ending in harmony, so that it was impossible to tell that they were two separate instruments. Despite their previous experience, their coupling now was like nothing they had ever felt before. It was an all-consuming fire of lust, but also a deep, gentle tide of love. They took their sweet time making love to one another. There was no hurry, no rush to end the rolling emotions. They had all the time in the world to savor the moment.

And after that burning desire; bliss. Pure, eternal bliss.

They lay in each other's embrace, whispering I love you drunkenly to each other again and again. Christine was lying on Erik's chest, her ear against his heart, listening to the steady rhythm that beat purely for her. She trailed her fingers over his face, over both the disfigured and smooth sides. Palming his mangled right cheek, she breathed: "You're so beautiful."

He froze under her. "Erik…?" She propped herself up on her elbows, looking down at him.

"No one's ever said that… I've been described by many words, but 'beautiful' is never one of them."

"I'm different," She replied earnestly. "I have learned to see past the surface, to see the beauty underneath."

He cupped her jaw, bringing her face down to the level of his face. He presented her with the most delicate of kisses, brief as the flutter of a faerie's wing. "_Christine, I love you." _He sang those familiar words.

She whispered the same back to her new husband, but exhaustion overcame her mid-sentence. She yawned widely, causing Erik to chuckle. His voice had never sounded as warm or rich as it did in that moment. He kissed her temple as she settled back on his chest. "Angels need their beauty sleep." He teased softly. Lying in his warm arms, she knew that this was where she was destined to rest.

* * *

Morning came with the soft spatter of rain, a weak gray light filtering into the room through French windows. Erik looked lovingly at the woman in his arms. Like he had on their first morning together, he marveled at the way her skin shone like the morning light, how she was truly an angel. Unable to help himself, he pressed a kiss to her temple, just as he did before she fell asleep.

She stirred in his arms and blinked sleepily. "Hey," She whispered, her voice husky with sleep. Her smile lit up the room. Slightly crooked to one side, it was the brightest light he had ever seen. He realized that she was glowing. Were pregnant women not supposed to glow? He hadn't realized what the expression meant until now. "You're staring at me." Her smile widened to a self-conscious grin.

"Because you're so beautiful," He answered automatically, though sincerely. This morning he seemed to be lighter and more carefree, finally able to his burden of darkness and destruction behind him. Staring intently into the depths of his eyes, she mused that she never seen so many distinct shades of gold in them before. "Can I ask something of you?" He asked soberly as he entwined his hand with hers, running his thumb over her wedding ring.

"Anything." She replied without a moment's hesitation.

He slipped a finger under her chin, tilting her face to meet his gaze. "I want to ask you, my wife –" He relished the feeling of that statement on his tongue – Christine was not only his pupil, his ingénue, but his _wife_. "To be my partner. I don't want to be your master, I don't want you to follow me blindly."

She was quiet for a moment; in the watery morning light, her pensive eyes were more grey than blue. "Thank you." She finally spoke, her voice sincere and even. "I didn't expect you to offer this. I'm honored, and grateful, that you would want me to be your friend and equal, not only your wife." She smiled, ruefully tucking an unruly strand of hair behind her ear; it escaped again. "I may not be experienced, but I don't think that many men would extend their respect to their wives like this."

"I'm not… normal." He cringed, but chose that word for lack of a better one.

"That's why I love you." She replied simply. "I hope that you don't mind me asking, as a _friend_," She added cautiously. She kept her gaze on her hands as she traced the scars on his chest, deliberately avoiding his gaze. He nodded, encouraging her to go on, hoping that she would look him in the eye; of course she refused to. "Why don't you want me, your wife, to be inferior? You would be my master, like you used to. You would be in control, and I would be content to follow you. I certainly did not expect this offer from you." She admitted frankly.

He curled a strand of her hair around a remarkably long finger. "You were not made to submit. You are not a mindless doll. I don't want an endlessly devoting and obedient wife. I don't want to change who you are."

By her smile, he knew that she understood exactly.

"That boy…" She knew right away, from his reluctant tone, that he was talking about Raoul. He hadn't wanted to bring up that fop on their wedding morning, but he felt that he had to say this. "He would have changed you. You would be forced to change into one of those trophy wives – submissive and obedient and painfully boring. You would lose who you are, lose this beautiful soul who is Christine."

"Don't forget," Christine replied, lifting her head proudly. Her curls bounced spiritedly at the movement. "That they haven't yet changed me. If I didn't have a mind of my own I would be, in your words, a _trophy wife_ by now, instead of in London with you. Don't forget that it was _I_ who snuck out of the de Chagny estate that night to find you. It was I who asked to follow anywhere you go."

He framed her heart-shaped face in his elegant hands. "It would bore me to the point of insanity if you were the perfect, obedient wife."

"And you are certain that you don't want that?" She asked coyly. "Your shy, modest little wife, who you take out on your arm for walks on Sundays, who cooks your dinner every night when you come home?"

"You, cook dinner?" Erik snorted as he tried – in vain – to control his laughter. Christine could feel his sides heaving as he tried to stop laughing, the deep, rich sound finding its way up from the depths of his torso. Christine found herself joining in this warm, refreshing sound with her bell-like tinkle of laughter. Once his laughter had somewhat subsided, he looked at her with feline eyes that twinkled merrily. "Christine, when was the last time you actually cooked? Successfully?" The flush of her cheeks and the playful glare was answer enough.

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**A/N: **I hope you liked that little bit of fluff. Cause I did :D The chapter of this title is from Christina Perri's song "A Thousand Years", which was something I had in mind while writing this chapter. Thank you to every one who reviewed the last chapter, have a virtual hug and a virtual cookie cause you're all amazing, every single one of you. Please leave a review on this chapter, you may or may not get a little preview... *hint hint*


	13. Chapter 12: Brewing Storm

**Disclaimer: **Not Leroux, not Kay, not ALW, I don't own Erik or Christine or Raoul or Phantom or anything that is recognizable.

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**Chapter 12: Brewing Storm**

Christine woke in an empty bed. A glance at the clock told her that she had been sleeping for close to twelve hours. Outside the large windows, she saw an angry grey sky, pelting the earth with large raindrops. A fierce gale whipped the trees around in a frenzied dance. The faint roar of the storm was a subtle, yet potent reminder of nature's power.

Fascinated by power, as she always was, Christine rose from the bed and padded, barefoot, across the carpet and to the window. She sat on the sofa that lined the alcove, curling her legs under her so she could turn around to look outside. The bedroom window looked over the grounds. She could see Allegro's paddock, but the black mare herself was out of sight. Erik had probably settled her into the stables to take shelter from the brewing storm.

Christine watched the storm for a few moments, captivated by it's raw power. Although Man felt all-powerful, nature would, every so often, remind mankind who came first – nature or civilization. The storm was dangerous and unpredictable, something entirely feral and ungoverned by human laws and social norms. It was this unconstrained freedom that mesmerized her.

This was one of the reasons she loved Erik – rebellious against the strict rules and expectations of society, indifferent to the customs that governed the rest of their culture. When she was with him, she didn't have to care about how she would be viewed, or whether her actions or words would be deemed improper. When she was with Erik, she could be herself.

Presently, she watched a figure make his way slowly through the paddock, fighting against the tempest. He was tall and lean, the ends of his black coat flapping madly. His arms were curled in front of his chest. He appeared to be cradling something into the shelter of his torso, completely hidden by his coat and his protective arms. "Erik," Christine whispered her husband's name under her breath, leaping off the sofa and dashing down the stairs.

Erik opened the door to see his wife running down the stairs, still barefoot, hair tousled. She had obviously just gotten out of bed. With a bright smile on her flushed face, she looked so youthful and filled with life. Erik felt a surge of youth return to his aging body just by seeing her. As always, his eyes drifted to the slow curve of her abdomen, which was starting to become more evident. Her loose nightgown could barely hide the telltale swell.

"What's that?" Christine asked in her clear soprano voice. She moved closer to peer at the grey bundle of fur cradled in his large hands. The tiny kitten looked up at her pitifully with wide golden eyes. Her face softened. "Ohh…" She breathed.

"I found him in the stable," Erik explained. "Look how thin he is; I don't think he's had a meal in days. His mother probably got killed by one of the dogs in the villages." His sympathy and concern were manifested on his expression.

"Poor thing," Christine whispered, eyes wide. Her brows were drawn up in the centre, a pitiful and heartbreaking sight. No one could doubt that she truly did empathize with the tiny creature.

"Can you get some old cloth, a box, anything – to make a bed for him?" Erik requested. "I'll see if we have any food he can eat."

Fifteen minutes later, the kitten had polished off a bit of chicken and was licking his paws in satisfaction on the kitchen table. Christine watched him, her arms folded on the table, her chin resting on them. As she looked at the kitten, her expression was filled with motherly fondness. Erik was struck by how well this look suited her. For a moment, he was struck by the image of Christine gazing into a cradle with the same expression on her face. Her excitement as their infant babbled his incoherent first "mama". Her pride as a little boy – _Gustave Erik Destler _– played a complicated melody on the piano with skill above his age. The forlorn look she would wear as their son hugged her goodbye. She would make a great mother…

He shook himself out of his fantasies and forced his mind to return to the kitten.

Presently, Christine reached out her hand to the kitten, who sniffed it cautiously, then rubbed his face along her ivory skin. She stroked his head, and he purred in response. "You are planning to keep him, aren't you?" She asked Erik hopefully, looking at him with shining eyes that resembled those of a kitten herself.

"Of course," He answered. The delighted grin on her face told him that it was the right decision. "I like cats; there used to be a stray that I fed back in Paris."

Christine couldn't help but ask mischievously: "The formidable Phantom keeps a pet?"

* * *

After penning a letter to the Girys, Christine joined Erik in the music room. He was seated at the piano, a pen in his hand as he hastily scribbled something onto a piece of paper. He then set down and played a variation of the same melody, perfecting the song. Knowing better than to disturb him from his music, Christine sat on the divan next to the window. The book she had been reading yesterday was left there, and she picked it up, flipping to the doggy-eared page she had marked earlier. _Le Belle et la Bete_ was something Meg had been trying to get her to read for years, but she had never really got around to it. With rehearsals, ballet practices and lessons with her Angel, a seventeen-year-old chorus girl simply didn't have the time to devote to a romance novel. Unsurprisingly, she had found a copy of it in the library in the de Chagny mansion during her engagement with Raoul. She had started it, but put it down when she realized the uncanny similarities it bore to her own experience.

Now, in her house in England, she had found a copy of the book again. When the previous owner passed away, some twenty years ago, his family took a few of his valuables and personal items. The rest of his property – some furniture, the grand piano (so out of tune that they didn't bother moving it), and a sizable library of old books, were sold along with the house. It was on one of the dusty shelves that a worn copy of _Le Belle et la Bete _had caught Christine's eye. She flipped through each yellowed page with care, reaching the climax when Belle returned to the dying Beast to swear her love. She felt herself starting to get teary as the Beast transformed into a handsome prince, Belle's rightful partner. Finishing the book with that inevitable happily ever after, she closed it and held it in her lap for a moment, not bearing to put it down. She simply wanted to bathe in that warm afterglow of finishing a book, soaking up all the emotions.

"Your Beast is no prince; no kiss or declaration of love can change that." Erik's voice broke into her thoughts. Her head snapped up; she didn't realize that he had stopped playing and was looking at her.

"I know." She replied, getting up and joining him at the piano. "But imagine – if you weren't born with this," She ran her hand over his masked cheek. "Would we ever have met?" She sat next to him.

He took her hand. "I would find you." He said with simple conviction.

"But would you be my Maestro?" She sat down next to him. "Would you ever see me as more than a chorus girl?" _And would you love me if you had other options?_

"In any lifetime, we would find each other. I've told you, that it is not possible for me to love any other woman." He kissed her forehead, and turned his attention back to the piano. "I think it's about time you continued your lessons; you've hardly sang at all for months! You haven't had a lesson since before… since all that… happened in Paris."

Obediently, Christine stood. She knew better than to argue with Erik on matters concerning her training, and she did want to continue learning. She did her warm-ups; which took somewhat longer than usual because of her lack of practice. "What do you want me to sing?" She asked when they had finished. "I know you like _Faust_." She added.

"No; you will be singing one of my newer compositions," Erik answered absently, ruffling through the stacks of sheet music piled on the piano. He finally produced a single sheet, marked with his distinct, spidery scrawl. Christine could just make out the title: _Once Upon Another Time._

Erik started playing the eight-bar introduction. Christine took the time to study the piece. It wasn't long, only a single sheet, double-sided. Erik's handwriting was spiky and hardly legible; fortunately she had had years of practice reading it.

"Christine!" The melodious sound of the piano stopped abruptly. "You missed your cue!"

"Sorry," she mumbled. Although he was her husband, Erik was no less firm and authoritative when he was her teacher.

"Try again!" He commanded. "And this time, _concentrate_." She nodded meekly; this time diligently listening intently to his playing and successfully started singing.

"_Once upon another time –_"

Erik cut her off. "Your voice went flat, try again. Remember, use your diaphragm."

She was clearly out of practice. They spent over an hour on the first verse, until she was pitch perfect.

"_Once upon another time_

_Our story had only begun_

_You chose to turn the page_

_And I made choices too."_

Erik stopped playing yet again. "What is this song about?"

"What?" She wrinkled her brow, not understanding what he was asking.

Erik turned around on the piano bench so that he was facing her. "You heard the question: What is this song about?"

"Two people regretting how they didn't love each other when they still had a chance to." She answered simply.

"So _feel _it." Her Maestro instructed. "Feel their longing, their regret. Feel their sorrow for losing something that could have been."

To imagine sadness and regret right now was impossible. Christine had been living in her little bubble of domestic bliss for the past few weeks. Since the wedding, she had rarely left the property, and even then she had not gone into the city. It was as though she and Erik were the only ones in the world who mattered; everyone else was just a blur of nameless faces. "I _can't_!" She protested. "I can't feel it! All I can feel is contentment and love and happiness; I can't feel the emotions of this song!" She looked at the scrunched up wad of paper in her hands, the remnants of the beautiful, tragic melody. In frustration she threw it across the room.

"Christine!" Erik stood up abruptly. She was taken aback for a moment by the wrath of this dark angel who towered over her with his glowering golden eyes of judgment. "While you are my student, you will not deny a task like this. It is simple enough. You are a singer, are you not?" He said harshly. "So act like one! You are not some spoiled diva who sings in excellence when the whim takes her, then refuses to sing properly when she is not in the mood to do so. Did you think that because you now have talent and skill, that practice is no longer necessary? I expect nothing short of perfection from you. And to achieve perfection you must dedicate every ounce of your effort into this exercise."

"Do you think that I do not try?" She returned with ire. "That I am not singing well because _I do not feel like it_? I honestly cannot make myself sing it well! I do try, but I cannot succeed. It is hardly my fault that you demand me to do something that is out of my ability." She pouted childishly.

"This is perfectly within your scope!" Erik snarled. "I know exactly what you are capable of, and this is certainly within your limits. You are acting like a spoiled child. Perhaps these few months of luxury have made you forget what it means to be a servant to music. You forget the dedication that your art requires!"

"You're being unreasonable!" Christine whined. She knew that Erik had a point, but she was unwilling to accept it.

"_I'm_ being unreasonable?" Disbelief flashed across Erik's face. "So now that I take on the role of teacher again, I'm suddenly a monster? Or had you simply forgotten about the monster that lurks inside the man?"

She was paralyzed for a moment by the unfairness of the accusation. It was a deeply injuring blow. "You know that's not true," She said with pent-up anger, wounded but defensive.

"Perhaps it isn't so far from it," Erik hissed. This man was nothing like the patient husband she had known in the past months. This was the Phantom with his notorious temper.

"Believe what you want," She snapped. And then she marched out of the music room in defiance.

"Christine Daae!" He spoke her maiden name sharply, halting her in her tracks. "You will _not_ simply walk out of a lesson! Come back here; this lesson is not over yet." Erik turned back to the piano. He pushed his coat tails back and sat down on the piano bench.

Defiance still bubbling in the gray depths of her eyes, Christine dragged her feet across the room to stand before the piano.

"We'll continue singing the piece until you meet your usual standard." Erik said impassively. But there was a threatening undercurrent to his voice that he simply could not hide.

Christine didn't speak. She was prepared to endure the rest of this lesson in agony. But she had not accounted that it would be literal. Pain suddenly shot through her abdomen. A soft gasp of pain came from those parted lips. Erik looked up in alarm, his golden eyes alight with genuine concern. Her eyes were widened, her brows drawn together in distress. Her hand was fisted on the month swell of her stomach, knuckles white from the tight grip. Erik clambered up, concern and fear written over his unmasked features. This was not the condemning Angel from mere moments ago. Christine gave another cry, her other hand grabbing at Erik's arm to support herself. He put an arm around her waist, the other lifting her from under her knees.

The ground she had stood on was wet with blood.

* * *

**A/N: **Please read this! While I have loads of nice reviews, and loads of reviews offering **advice**, I've also received a couple of meaner ones. I'm not against criticism. I **do **accept criticism and ways which I can improve my writing or this story. But there are some people who're being mean just because they can do so, without leaving their names. Most – if not all – of the nasty reviews are from guest reviewers, meaning that I can't reply. So if you want to leave a review offering advice on how I can improve, please **review with an account **so I can reply to you via PM on Fanfiction. net.

Here are a couple of replies to the previous guest reviewers:

Some women DO show when they are three months pregnant. I know this because when my aunt was pregnant, she was showing quite a bit at three months. Also, Christine is a petite woman, so she would show earlier. Also, she wouldn't tighten the corset all the way, as she would be concerned about the baby.

My "cover art" is not the cover art for this story. It's my profile picture. I know that it's Muirin007's art, but she gave me permission to use it. I am NOT stealing it!


	14. Chapter 13: Broken

******Disclaimer: **I don't own Phantom. I don't own Erik or Christine.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Broken**

The waiting was torturous. Erik knew that Flavio was a trusted and experienced doctor, and his apprentice, Edward, was just as reliable. But despite his logical mind, there are times when even a genius abandons reason. Erik was no stranger to these moments. One of the fields where Erik had little knowledge in was medicine. But even so, he knew that the trail of blood that led from the music room to their bedroom, and the way Christine cried out every so often, was all a very, very bad sign.

Tempest, the storm-grey kitten, sensed his master's distress and wove around Erik's legs. He mewed and reached up to paw Erik, his yellow eyes wide with distress. But his efforts were ignored. Erik could not be comforted, not while the door to his bedroom remained closed, and the ticking of the ominous ticking of the clock signified the passing seconds which Christine's condition remained unknown.

_What's the worse that could happen?_ He thought. Immediately, he realized that this was not a line of thought he wanted to go down in.

_My mother had a difficult pregnancy with me. We have the same build; she was too small and slight to carry a child properly._

What would become of him if Christine indeed followed her mother's fate? A life without Christine would be hell, even worse than those agonizing months when she had been with the Vicomte. Back then, at least Erik had let her go on his own terms, and he knew that she would be happy. But now, if he lost her now… it would be a cruel trick of fate to take her when their life had just started.

No, he could not blame Fate for this. It was his own fault. Curse him and his wild temper! He could not hold himself back from an argument. He had been volatile and rude. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. Why couldn't he keep his calm? Why did he constantly let his temper get the best of him? He was no more than a beast, with his utter lack of control! He should not have provoked her so, especially knowing her delicate condition. Now, faced with the possibility of losing Christine, their argument seemed trivial. Who cared if she was spoiled and childish and flighty, as long as she was alive? Erik would gladly suffer all the curses and insults she would deal upon his face and his temper, if it meant that she could live. He wouldn't care whether she was at his side or in some other man's bed, so long as she was alive and healthy upon the face of the earth. There was no price he would not pay for her life.

Edward's British accent broke through his inner turmoil. "Monsieur Destler…?" The fourteen year old opened the door, poking out his head of thick ginger hair. His hazel eyes were filled with sympathy and nervousness.

"Is she…" Worry and fear choked the words choked in his throat. A part of him wanted to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake him. But the other part, the greater part, was almost paralyzed.

"Madame Destler is fine." The boy reassured him. "Weak and exhausted, but she will recover. But the child..." Not daring the meet Erik's eyes, he looked away, cringing as though he feared that Erik would strike him. Once again, Erik's heart hammered like the hooves of a hundred horses.

Flavio Morino stepped out of the room and clapped the boy's shoulder. Edward looked up at him gratefully, spared of the trial of telling Erik. Flavio spoke calmly. "Erik, there was nothing I could do for the infant."

Erik grabbed the doctor by his lapels and shoved him against a wall. "Nothing?" He spat. "_Nothing_?! Are you not a doctor? Are you not supposed to save lives?"

Flavio pushed against the former Phantom in vain; Erik's anger lent him the power to hold the other man. "Christine was bleeding to her death! Are you telling me to abandon a young woman's life – your wife's life – to save a baby too young to survive? Even if I pulled him from the womb, he would not live. It's too early on in the pregnancy.""

Erik slackened. Flavio pushed the younger man off him. Erik made no move to steady himself as he stumbled backwards. He barely heard Flavio's words, other than the crucial pronoun – "he". Christine was right; she had been carrying a boy. Their son. _Gustave Erik Destler_. Erik felt a pressure atop his ribcage, crushing his heart and lungs, as though his chest had collapsed. Now that there was no promise, no more hope for a child, he stopped dreading its arrival. Instead he was mourning its loss, the loss of their future, the promise of new life, broken. "And Christine?" He dared to ask.

"She's fine now." Flavio assured him. "Distraught and in pain, but she'll recover soon enough. But it was incredibly close. Had I come a few hours later, she would be dead."

Erik pushed past him to open the door. Christine lay on their bed, looking impossibly frail. Those wide eyes, once so bright and spirited, were blank and lifeless. They were pools of pain, filled with both the physical suffering and the mental trauma of the miscarriage. It broke his heart to see her so weak and dejected. Her face was a worrying shade, so pale that it was almost gray. A mass of bloodied sheets were piled on the floor; Erik couldn't believe that all that blood was his Christine's. Dark red and ominous, it smelled of rust and death and made his stomach churn. They reminded him of a darker time, when bloodlust and violence was his purpose, when he was the bringer of death. _Death. _Gustave's fate.

Christine turned her gaze to him. Was this the same girl who was once so lively and passionate? Her lifeless gaze was like an accusation, scorching his soul with their dead iciness, shattering the remnants of his heart into little pieces.

So he ran.

The world blurred around him. All that existed was the storm of emotion. Anger; grief; disbelief; overwhelming him. And most of all, pain. He didn't know why, but each solid thump of his heart hurt to an inhuman degree, almost like they were footsteps towards death.

He collapsed to his knees in the middle of a large field. He gave a howl of agony, screaming his rage at the sky. The sound shattered the serenity. A few birds fled from the nearby trees with cries of alarm. He bellowed again and again, a bestial release of all the intense emotions. Erik was no stranger to suffering, but never before had he felt such sorrow for pain that wasn't his own.

Tears welled and overflowed from his eyes, seeping under his mask. He ripped it from his face and cursed it; cursed his face; cursed the gods; cursed cruel Fate; cursed the world.

The sky was mockingly free of clouds, and as dusk set in, the heavens were a beautiful sea of ultramarine and aqua, streaked with violet. Bordering the horizon, stained by the setting sun, was a faint tint of pink. It was as though the gods themselves were celebrating Erik's loss with this beautiful evening.

Erik felt utterly powerless. His woman, his wife, his muse, his angel, _his Christine_, had almost died. Their son was dead before he even had a chance to live. And there was nothing Erik could do about it. He was helpless against the tragedies that rammed against him and Christine. There was nothing he could do now to ease her suffering, or to bring back their child.

He staggered to his feet and ran again. The world darkened around him. In the dim light that remained before nightfall, Erik found himself in the outskirts of a small town. A group of children, aged around seven or eight, were playing further down the road.

A middle-aged man, obviously drunk, stumbled out of a pub. His beard was matted and stained with the froth of beer. His face was haggard, his clothes dirty. He reeked repulsively of beer, vomit and body odor. Staggering along the road, the man grabbed a small, thin boy from the group. The child cried out in pain as the man dragged him down a secluded path.

Growling, the drunkard raised a fist and hit the boy. The child screamed. "You ungrateful bastard." The man growled. "Eating off my table, sleeping in my house, wearing my clothes. You're not even my own flesh and blood; if it wasn't for your mother I'd send you off to a workhouse."

"No, Jacob, please…" The abused boy squeaked fearfully, whimpering from the blows. "I'll be good, I promise… I'll work, I'll earn money. You can buy whatever you want... you can have as many drinks as you want. Please, not the workhouse…"

"What good are you? Just like your father." The man continued ramming his fists down on the boy's scrawny body. "Your mother did the smart thing for once; she married me. But she had to bring you along, you little brat."

Erik's vision swam red. He clenched his fists, trembling in anger. How dare this man abuse a child like that! The drunkard punched and kicked the boy, who curled his arms around himself in an almost fetal position. Erik wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the drunkard's throat and feel the life drain from him, execute the punishment for hurting an innocent child.

In a flash, Erik had pinned Jacob to the ground. His hands, deceptively slender, throttled that withered, stinking neck. His weight on the diaphragm, forcing the air from his lungs. Jacob struggled and gasped like a fish on a hook. Erik felt the sheer exhilaration, the raw power of having complete control over another life. As Jacob's power slipped away, Erik's grew stronger.

The last thing Jacob saw was the dark avenging Angel.

His head rolled back as he lost consciousness. Realization of his actions hit Erik. He staggered back from the body in shock. Hiding in an alleyway, Erik watched as a villager found the body and screamed. He watched as the other villagers came running. He watched as the boy's mother – Jacob's wife – hugged her son tightly and inspected his wounds.

An older man, presumably a doctor, by the air of authority on him, pushed his way through the panicking crowd to kneel before Jacob. He pressed his fingers against the large man's throat. Erik held his breath. In moments, the doctor stood and addressed Jacob's wife. "He's alive." He announced. Unconscious, but alive." Erik let his breath out. If he had had the Punjab lasso with him, Jacob wouldn't have stood a chance. He would have been dead in seconds. "Since there are no visible wounds on his head, I would deduce that he's simply had too much to drink." He bent to the little boy's level. "What happened here?" He asked in the kind yet stern tone that was used by so many doctors.

"An angel saved me." He replied, all innocence.

"An _angel_, you say?" The doctor was incredulous.

The boy nodded fervently. "He was dressed all in black, and he moved so gracefully that he must have been floating on wings. He disappeared after he saved me."

There were murmurs among the crowd that Jacob has been punished by God's dark executioner. "Did you see his face?" The doctor asked. Erik tensed.

"No, sir." Erik let out a sigh of relief at the boy's answer. If the boy saw his face he would surely be called a demon from hell that had tried to murder a man in cold blood. He froze as the reality of it struck him – was that not what he had just done? He mentally growled in frustration; how could he let his control slip? He had resolved to be a new man, one worthy of Christine, but he had fallen into the same mistakes again! What would Christine think?

Christine! A look at the darkened sky told him that he had been gone for hours. And she would still be at home. What did she do, all alone, in her grief; in her pain; in her resentment towards him? Panic gripped Erik's heart in its jaws. For a moment he couldn't breathe. _Please, don't let her do anything reckless..._

He fled the scene of the murder, running back towards his property. He burst through the mahogany doors with frenzy. Dashed up the stairs three at a time. Barged into the bedroom with adrenaline pumping through his veins.

She was still lying there, pale as death, her eyes still blank. Tempest was curled next to her, and her hand was running along the kitten's soft fur. It physically hurt to see Christine like that, weak and lifeless. The frenzied man left, to be replaced by a sad, worried husband. "Christine..."

Two pairs of eyes turned to him; one set golden, the other grey.

"Erik." Her voice was raspy from crying, and as he neared he noticed the tear stains on her face, sticky, drying streams that clung to her skin.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, not daring to approach her. She would not want him to touch her; not these hands of a murderer.

But she held out her hand, reaching for him. Hesitant, Erik moved closer and slowly sat on the bed. He was careful not to initiate contact with her. Christine, though, took his hand. She ignored his sharp intake of breath.

"It's always been fight or flight for you, hasn't it?" The way she said it, it was more of a statement than a question. She knew him so well; had grown to know him so during these months together.

"I'm sorry for that. And also for what happened earlier." Their fight was a distant memory.

She shook her head. "I don't even remember what we were arguing about." She nestled her head on his lap, taking comfort from his quiet strength. He stroked her head, running his fingers through her curls. "Where were you?"

"I…" As much ad Erik trusted Christine, and wanted to be honest with her, his protectiveness was close to second nature. He didn't want her to know that he had almost murdered. Again.

"Is it something I don't want to know?" She gave him a knowing look that was almost dreading. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Christine reached up and cupped the right side of his cheek. "Your mask is off," she noted.

"I almost killed a man."

Christine's breath caught in her throat. "_What?!_" She whispered. "Erik, _why?_"

He shook his head helplessly. "He was beating this little boy, his stepson, and I couldn't stand how he was hurting a child so pure and beautiful…"

"So you killed him?" She was shocked; an unspoken accusation was written across her face.

"Almost." Erik said in instinctive defensiveness. "I couldn't stop; one moment he was beating the boy, the next my hands were around his neck."

"But you stopped." She fixed his face with her desperate eyes, begging him to tell her that he didn't give in to his rage.

"Yes."

She seemed to let out a sigh of relief. "And the boy?"

"He's safe, with his mother." Erik turned away and gave a dry chuckle. "He thought that he was saved by an angel." He could not have been more wrong.

"You love children," She whispered. If she had any tears left to cry, moisture would be gathering in the corners of her eyes. "Myself when my father died, and now this abused boy. You are an angel, Erik – an angel to children." She sighed heavily. She proved herself wrong as droplets ran down her cheeks once again. "You would have been the most amazing father."

Erik felt his own tears threatening to fall. He swallowed them, choking out his sentence. "We could have another…"

She shook her head, her expression darkening. "It's not the same." She said forlornly. Her voice caught in her throat as she cried. Sensing his owners' grief, Tempest leapt over Christine's torso, snuggling into the gap between Erik and Christine's bodies. He licked Christine's tearstained face and mewed in a kitten's concern. She managed a small, watery smile that failed to reach her eyes. "I know, you don't like it when I'm sad."

"I don't like it either." Erik ran a thumb along her cheek, catching those diamond-like teardrops. "Angels aren't meant to cry."

"Angels aren't meant to die either, Erik, but Gustave did." She reminded him. Her hands unconsciously slid to her stomach. There was no baby in her now. She remembered the agony, how hard she tried fighting to keep Gustave alive, to keep him in her. "It hurts." She whispered. He understood that she was referring to more than the physical pain.

"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "I wish I could take it away." She looked up at him with wide grey pools of sadness. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head, then stopped and sighed thoughtfully. "You could sing."

He opened his mouth and that angelic tenor floated out to meet her.

"_Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes_

_And save these questions for another day_

_I think I know what you've been asking me_

_I think you know what I've been trying to say_

_I promised I would never leave you_

_And you should always know_

_Wherever you may go_

_No matter where you are_

_I never will be far away._

_Goodnight my angel, now its time to sleep_

_And still so many things I want to say_

_Remember all the songs you sang for me_

_When we went sailing on an emerald bay_

_And like a boat out on the ocean_

_I'm rocking you to sleep_

_The water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart_

_You'll always be a part of me."_

It was the lullaby he had written for her when she was a child. The same song she had fallen asleep to every night, once upon an innocent time, when things had been so much simpler, when she was allowed to believe in angels, when his mere voice could soothe away every heartache. The same hypnotizing voice now calmed her. She allowed the notes of the melody to drift her away into slumber.

Erik cradled Christine's sleeping form in his lap. She looked so peaceful, though there was a certain tightness in her brow that hadn't been there in the past. Erik scratched Tempest's chin, earning a content purr from the kitten. "Thank you for looking after her when I wasn't here." He murmured. The kitten blinked his yellow eyes at him and snuggled into Christine's side. Erik closed his own eyes. He might as well sleep, and take comfort from Christine's presence. He had not been there for her today, despite what he had once promised her. He vowed now that in the coming days, weeks, or even months that she needed to recover, he would be there by her side.

But he had a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he would fail to keep that promise once again.

* * *

**A/N: **Please don't kill me! *hides*

Also, since it is my **birthday **this Thursday, please leave a review as a birthday present?


	15. Chapter 14: Never Again

******Disclaimer: **At this point, it is probably unnecessary for me to reiterate that no, I do not own Phantom. I do own Tempest and the rest of my OCs.

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**Chapter 14: Never Again**

For the two days and nights following the miscarriage, Christine did little but sleep. Erik rarely left the room, taking up a place either in a chair by her bedside, or elsewhere in their spacious bedchamber. She felt numb, a physical part of her literally ripped from her body. Her sleep was nightmare-ridden until she woke screaming into her pillow. Erik would be there, pushing her tangled curls from her face with his elegantly long fingers, stroking her cheeks, whispering comforting, yet meaningless words. She clung to him as though he was her lifeline, as though he could save her from her dark subconscious that threatened to drown her in fear. He cradled her trembling form in his arms and kissed her temple despite the sweat that clung to her in a sticky sheen. Over these two days she was plagued by countless nightmares, forgotten as soon as she woke, but left her frightened and hopeless.

"It was only a dream, it can't harm you when you're awake." He offered the same words he used to tell her when she was younger.

She shook her head despairingly. "But when I wake, I am still living in a nightmare." Her hands crept down to her abdomen, still slightly rounded. She wished it would return to its former slimness, as though she had never been pregnant. Now, the remaining softness in it was a painful reminder of what she had lost.

"Maybe," Erik dared to voice. "Maybe this is a blessing in disguise."

She whipped her head around in alarm. "_What_?!"

"What if he would be like me?" Erik whispered, lowering his head in shame and self-loathing. "Maybe it's for the best, that he would never have to experience life as – as a _freak_."

"I wouldn't have minded." A solitary tear slid down Christine's cheek. She had cried so much that she was surprised she still had tears left to cry. "I would have loved him all the same."

"Not everyone is like you, my sweet angel." He whispered sadly. "Not everyone can see the beauty underneath."

Her gaze softened as she saw the look of utter sadness on Erik's face. She cupped his cheek, his mangled, deformed cheek. "We can."

He nodded, unable to speak for the lump that had formed in his throat. Breathing heavily, he leaned his forehead against hers, both of them fighting tears, mourning what they had lost before it was truly theirs.

* * *

Flavio Morino was one of the incredibly few men Erik trusted. They had a shared past of traveling through Italy from Rome to Venice, and when they arrived, Erik had moved himself into Flavio's apartment, much to the latter's annoyance. Their relationship was built on mutual trust, which Erik was now glad for, because for the first time in his life, he required the services of a doctor whom he could trust.

Flavio checked Christine's breathing methodically. "Are you still bleeding?" She shook her head. After the miscarriage a week ago, she had been bleeding onto her undergarments. The sight of blood made her sick, reminding her of that day when she had bled the life of her child.

"You're healing well," Flavio commented, watching his patient. She had been cheerful and blithe in the short time he knew her, and according to Erik's descriptions she had always been a spirited girl. Now there was a vacant look in her eyes, as though the life has left her and she was merely an empty shell. As a doctor, he knew that she was physically healthy and recovering well from the miscarriage. Her body worked mechanically – she ate; she slept; her heart beat. But inside she was hollow. Lifeless.

Flavio sighed and put away his equipment. He knew it was useless trying to get a response out of Christine. The spirit needed time to heal, just as the body needed time to recover. "Well my instructions are the same as before – get plenty of rest." He said. "And a piece of advice," He added. "Try not to dwell on it too much."

She looked at him with a soulless gaze, her eyes lifeless voids. "Try not to dwell on it? You don't know what this feels like, to have something so dear torn away."

"I don't know what it feels like?" His eyes flashed in anger. "You think that I don't know what it feels like to lose someone dear?" His anger was malicious, bitterness sharp and striking as poison. Christine was suddenly reminded that this man was more than the kindly, solemn doctor he appeared to be. He was tormented with a past that he could not put down.

Nevertheless, she met his furious gaze with a stony cold one. A stubborn refusal to apologize. Flavio's expression was just as hardened as hers. Pitiless. Condemning. Neither headstrong soul willing to admit defeat, Flavio turned and stalked out of the room.

With a pained expression, Christine sat on the divan that looked over the grounds. Everything appeared so painfully normal. Had it been only a week ago when she was living in bliss? Has it only been a week ago when she felt the faint fluttering of her baby within her? Barely a month had passed since the wedding. That peaceful, happy, hopeful period seemed like a millennia ago.

There were birds outside her window. One called, and its mate whistled an answering melody. She could see, in the distance, the road that the villagers used to travel into London. Carts and horses passed every day, as though nothing had happened. How could those people's lived still carry on like normal? Was it possible that not so far away, there were people whose lives were unaffected by the loss of her son? It amazed her that the rest of the world could carry on undisturbed when her life has been shattered.

A tentative knock on her bedroom door disturbed her from her thoughts. _Who could it be? _She puzzled. It was neither Erik nor Flavio; Erik's knock was a quick series of taps, occasionally followed by her name. Flavio's knocks were heavier and spaced, and he would not be returning to her after he had just left the room. This knock was uncertain and timid. "Yes?" She called.

The door opened to reveal Edward. "Madame?" He looked almost frightened as he stood in the doorway. "Th-these are for you." He extended an arm, his hand holding a small pouch.

"Come in," Christine beckoned. Shyly, Edward edged into the room. "What's this?" She asked, taking the pouch from him.

"I wanted to give it to Tempest, my cat used to love these treats…" His whisper was almost inaudible.

"Thank you." Christine made an attempt to smile, though it didn't touch her eyes. "You have a cat?" She couldn't help but ask. The poor boy looked terrified and immensely shy.

"Used to. I was born on a farm, ma'am."

"Christine." She corrected him. At nineteen, she was young enough to be his sister; it was strange to hear herself addressed as "ma'am". The formality created a social gap between them, as though he was much inferior. It also made her feel unnecessarily old.

"Right," He mumbled abashedly. She found herself feeling fond of him; his shyness reminded her of herself when she was a child.

Christine nodded. "What about your parents? Are they still on the farm?" She asked out of politeness.

"They're dead." He said simply. "They died when I was ten."

"Oh." Christine's eyes widened. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "I had to sell the farm, there was no way that I could run it by myself and I couldn't afford workers."

"How did you end up as a doctor's apprentice, then?" Despite herself, Christine's interest sparked.

"I went to London to seek my fortune." Edward said with a touch of pride. "My sister's married, see. Jane's young and she's real good to me, too. But I detest her husband. 'Sides, she's got five children of her own, and I don't want to be a burden. I met Master Flavio in London, and he took me as his apprentice."

"That's very brave for a boy of ten." She praised him, newly gained respect evident in her voice. Once again he shrugged sheepishly. Orphaned at ten, this boy wasn't much different from herself, but unlike her, he had managed to survive and earn his trade without the guidance of an angel. If, at ten, she had not stumbled into Erik's protection, she knew that she would always have been a mediocre ballerina, her talent never discovered and allowed to flourish. She would never have found her courage and strength, never realized her defiance and passion that was so much like Erik's.

"Edward!" Flavio's voice echoed up from the drawing room. The boy's brown eyes widened.

"I have to go, Master Flavio must want to leave..." He dashed to the door, and then looked back with a timid shyness. "Get better soon, Christine; you remind me of my sister." He slipped out of the room, his cheeks burning red.

* * *

Erik looked up desperately as Flavio emerged from Christine's room. "She's better, isn't she?" Never before had Flavio seen his friend care so much about another. Never had he looked so torn up over another's pain. _I was once like that_. Flavio thought bitterly, remembering how pathetic and _weak_ he had been, caring about a woman who did not return any feelings for him.

"Recovering well." He assured the younger man in a clipped, professional tone. Erik's stiff posture sagged in relief. "But there's something both of you need to expect." He met Erik's gaze steadily, expression unreadable. "It is possible Christine may not be able to conceive again."

A light went out in Erik's eyes. His expression of utter despair made Flavio feel a prick of guilt. "Oh." He murmured. "I promised her…" Flavio raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "I promised her we would have children; she wants to be a mother so much…"

"It's not impossible for her to have a child." Flavio laid a comforting hand on Erik's shoulder, feeling a little uneasy at his friend's melancholy. "It would, obviously, have complications. But it could happen."

"But it would be dangerous for her."

Flavio nodded gravely. "My condolences, Erik."

* * *

**A/N: **To be honest I think that this chapter is sort of mreh. It's the only chapter (so far) that I am not happy with. But I will upload it anyways, because I don't have any idea how to improve on it. I shall edit this whole thing again at a later date when I get writer's block with the original story I'm writing now (dun dun DUN!) and miss Erik and Christine.

So, leave a review please? :]


	16. Chapter 15: The Shattered Shards of Life

******Disclaimer: **I own nothing recognizable.

* * *

**Chapter 15: The Shattered Shards of Life**

These days Erik sought solitude in his music room. He would go in there for hours at a time, even the whole day. From the adjoining library, Christine would hear music. Melodies of grief and sorrow; of pain and loss. Hidden from Erik's perceptive eyes, she would allow herself to cry silently. She didn't cry in front of Erik anymore, because she saw that her sadness was hurting him. The painful expression on his face made her feel so guilty. But she never saw him long enough to exchange more than a few words. He spent almost all his time in the music room, leaving only when driven by physical needs, which wasn't often for a man like Erik.

One night, Christine had gone to sleep listening to a song Erik was playing on the piano. It was written from love, with no undertone of sadness like other pieces he's been playing. It was a simple lullaby, one for rocking a child to sleep. It calmed her, and she fell asleep to its soothing melody. When she awoke Erik's side of the bed was made, proving that once again he had not come to bed that night.

But the music had stopped. For the first time in days, it had stopped. The door to the music room was closed, as it always was these days. But it was silent. No heartbreaking, passionate aria marked his release of emotion. Driven by curiosity and a tint of worry, Christine knocked; when there was no answer she entered.

Erik was asleep at the piano. He was lying on the keys, one arm cushioning his head, the other hanging down. His body rose and fell with the steady tempo of his breathing. Some sheets lay on the floor, covered with musical staves and hand-written notes. He must have played and composed to the point of exhaustion, and fell asleep at the piano. Even a genius was not immune to tiredness; he had not stopped playing and composing for two weeks.

Asleep, Erik let his guard down. His face was more relaxed, though there was a certain crease in his brow that suggested his slumber was not exactly carefree. His mask was off, stripping down the physical emotionless barrier. His cheek pressed against the keys of the piano, pulling up the corner of his mouth. It was completely endearing, making him look youthful and almost innocent.

Curious about the songs she heard last night, Christine picked up the fallen papers. The title was two words that made tears well up in her eyes: _For Gustave_. She flipped through the papers; this particular piece was slow and soft, a lullaby. It was the one she heard last night.

She picked up some of the sheet music lying on top of the piano. One piece was filled with powerful chords that clashed angrily with each other. It was dominated by a burning intensity. Another piece of paper had complex notes scrawled hastily over it; Christine could make out a beautiful yet haunting melody, with a complex and equally nostalgic compliment.

Erik spoke behind her, startling her. "These were all written for him." She knew that he was talking about Gustave. Something stirred in her; anger, annoyance, and something else that she couldn't name. She only recognized much later that it was betrayal.

"So this was what you had been doing?" She said coldly, her voice filled with a bitterness she hadn't realized she felt. "Writing music?" She spun around to face him. "Erik, I needed you. And you weren't there." The accusation, sharp with resentment, made him turn away and look down in remorse. He couldn't face the rainy grey depths of her eyes, see the hurt in them, and know that he had caused it to be so acute. She needed him. His presence alone comforted her, reminded her of his support. He knew that. Yet he had deserted her nonetheless.

"I needed to play, to write music." He murmured pathetically. It was no excuse for leaving her to deal with her grief alone. It was only a small part of the truth, but telling her all of it would crush her. "It's the only thing I can do to keep myself from doing what I did… from hurting someone." When he looked up his eyes were filled with anguished remorse. "I'm sorry," _I wish I could tell you the real reason._

She huffed, exasperated. "This isn't something a simple 'sorry' can solve. Do you know how I felt?" She rubbed her face tiredly. "If you had been there, you could have made it more bearable. Alone, I couldn't hold it in. Alone, I'm exposed to my emotions. Alone, I break down."

Erik stood up quickly, towering over her. "And do you think that I wouldn't be upset? That I have been completely unaffected?" He waved a long arm at the papers scattered around the music room. "You think that I would lock myself in here for days, because I feel _leisurely _enough to compose?"

"I don't care why you isolated yourself; I just want a husband that would care for me." She looked up at him, her expression stony. "I guess it's too much to ask you to put me before you."

The words tumbled out of his mouth on their own accord: "We can't have another child."

A dead, still silence hung in the air. So loud that it screamed. So quiet it was heavy. Like the moment a glass dropped. Its smooth surface shimmering in the light. Almost transparent, but not quite visible. Free-fall. Brief but eternal.

"What?" Christine breathed. Her voice shattered the spell of the silence. Like a glass fragmenting into a million pieces. Each shard glittering in the light. Each shard capable of irreparable damage. Each shard deceptively deadly.

Erik closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply through his nose. How could he have been so careless? He had wanted to tell her gently. Preferably with a little more tact than dropping it out of nowhere. "Flavio said," He began speaking slowly. Though he managed to keep his voice calm, it was filled with regret. "That it would be dangerous for you to bear a child again."

With a choked gasp, she spun around in a whirl of chocolate curls and white skirts. Without another word, she was out of the music room, leaving Erik staring after her, openmouthed.

* * *

He found her sitting on one of the sofas in the library, her arms wrapped around her knees, which were tucked up to her chest. Tempest was on the floor, looking up at her with worried golden eyes.

"Hey," He whispered, coming up to her.

She tensed, but did not turn around to look at him. "Were you ever going to tell me?" She spat bitterly.

He sighed. "I wanted to do it gently…"

She scoffed. "As if there was any 'gentle' way to do it. Erik, you promised to be honest with me." Even without seeing her face, he could tell that she was deeply hurt by his dishonesty, as much as she was about her barrenness.

"I'm sorry." He said with ardor. "I'm sorry I kept the truth from you. I'm sorry I've been avoiding you. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."

"I told you." She said, stubbornly refusing to face him. "An apology is not enough."

"Then what do you want me to do? Grovel at your feet and beg for forgiveness?" He knelt down to level. He gently gripped her chin in his bony fingers and turned her to face him.

"I don't know, Erik," She admitted softly. "Just give me a while." Her hair was swept to one side, the nape of her neck exposed. Her eyes, wide and doe-like, betrayed her uncertainty. Looking at him through those long lashes, she had never looked so vulnerable. She did not look like the strong-willed young woman she had matured into; she had transformed back into the frightened girl she once was. She looked vulnerable and fragile, and she was his; his to love; his to protect.

"I won't abandon you for a moment longer than I've already done." He looked at her, moving his hands to frame her face. Perhaps it was his sincere dedication warmed her to the heart and melted all traces of her earlier temper. Perhaps she just needed to be held. Whatever the reason, she dropped to the floor, knelt next to him and hugged him. Her head nestled in that familiar hollow between his neck and shoulder, her petite nose brushed his slender throat.

Erik wrapped his long arms around her. He closed his eyes to savor the feeling of having her warm, soft body in his arms, letting her sweet scent of roses fill his nose. "I am truly sorry. " He told her. "I hope you understand; I was only trying to protect you."

"You're forgiven," She murmured, her lips brushing against his skin as she spoke. She followed this with a tender kiss to the base of his throat. "I know you acted in what you thought was best for me, I just want you to know that you don't have to shelter me. I'm strong enough to handle the truth." A brief smile flickered on her face. "I'm not a little girl any more." As she spoke the words she knew them to be true. She was no longer a meek, frightened child. Any trace of childhood that had been left in her was gone now, subsided with the death of her own child.

"And I want to apologize, too." She continued. "I know that it's been hard for you, too. I know that composing is how you deal with… what's happened. I wish I were more understanding. It's just that I felt so alone... And you're how I keep my emotions, my self-pity, at bay." She curled further into his arms and he gladly gave her that shelter, that sanctuary from the slaughter of her own emotions. Neither ever wanted to move, not when each other's arms were a shelter from all the pain and suffering in the world.

* * *

Christine's hair was blowing in the wind; her blue-gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. She and Erik were standing in the grounds of the estate, close enough to the house to be within walking distance, yet still isolated, providing privacy. They stood in front of a shallow grave, a small gravestone erected before it.

_Gustave Erik Destler_

_4__th__ March 1882 – 28__th__ June 1882_

_Love never dies, love will continue_

_Love keeps on beating when you're gone_

They had decided to make a grave for Gustave, something to show that he had existed, that he would be remembered, that he was loved. Erik felt a strange jealousy for his unborn son; even before birth, he was showered with the kind of love Erik never experienced. But more potent than the irrational and immature jealousy was his sadness. There had been nights when he played and composed until the wee hours of the morning, when he would finally cry, exhausted by the outpour of emotion.

Erik stepped forward from Christine's side and laid a bundle of papers into the grave. It was the music that he had been writing for the two weeks since the miscarriage. Christine looked at him, wide eyed. "Erik, those are your compositions."

"They are for him," He told her soberly. "It's only right that they are buried in his grave." She nodded in understanding of this gesture. She stepped next to the grave and bent down. The piece of music on top was _For Gustave_, the lullaby Erik had composed for their son, back when they could still hope for one.

Christine's pale hand shook as she laid a red rose on top of the papers. The rose was a symbol of Erik's love for her, and it also represented Christine's acceptance and requital of that love. Gustave was the product of their love, conceived the night she realized her feelings for her fallen angel. Placing the rose in his grave was an acknowledgement that he was their child, created by their love.

They filled the shallow grave with dirt. Christine's demeanor changed as the couple turned to walk back towards the house. She stood straighter, her steps were more certain, her eyes glowed once again with light and life. Perhaps this is closure – this hope that maybe, you can pick up the shards of your shattered life and continue living.

* * *

**A/N: **There, the angst is over... for now. The lyrics on Gustave's grave are, obviously, from Love Never Dies, the crappy Phantom sequel by ALW. If you ever watch it, I highly suggest watching Phantom right after to brainwash yourself from the horror of LND.

Review please? ^_^


	17. Chapter 16: Opera!

******Disclaimer:** I own nothing recognizable.

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**Chapter 16: Opera!**

Operas were something Christine had grown up around. She had been a ballerina, a chorus girl, an understudy, even the star of the show. But strangely, she had never watched a show sitting among the audience. Tonight was her first theatre experience, and she had watched _The Magic Flute _with rapt interest. She realized that she now had more appreciation for theatre than she did before. Seeing a live performance had given her not only more respect for the performers and composer, but also the costume designers, the set designers, the choreographer… She had seen for herself how breathtaking it was to how watch all the elements of it come together perfectly.

Christine took her husband's arm as they walked across the marbled floor floor of the Royal Opera House. "Did you enjoy it?" Erik remarked. "It is disgraceful that you were never allowed the opportunity to watch on opera from start to finish."

"This is the first opera that I've ever seen; it was more than what I had expected," Christine replied truthfully. "I'm glad that it is _The Magic Flute_."

"You've always liked the music from it." Erik remembered. "It's a shame that the Garnier never showed it; I would have done anything to make them cast you as the Queen of the Night."

"Remember that time, when we were studying the music, we spent four hours over the aria in the second act? I knew that it was your favorite so I spent all my time outside of rehearsals and lessons trying to perfect it for you."

"It was brilliant." He agreed. "As I recall, you were singing it in the bath, were you not?"

She flushed. "You were listening?"

"Not at the time!" He argued defensively. "But even I cannot block my ears from the gossip that Christine Daae had spent an hour in the bath singing!"

"_Mon dieu…_" She mumbled, blushing. "At least you didn't listen tome bathing."

"You were fifteen; what would that make me, a sick pervert who listens in on young women while they bath? That, Madame, is Joseph Buquet, not Erik Destler!"

"Because the notorious _Opera Ghost_," She lowered her voice as she spoke the two words. "Is beyond that kind of immorality?" She teased, grey eyes sparkling mirthfully.

"Precisely." He smiled knowingly at her, the smile of sharing an inside joke.

Christine's brief rise to fame and infamous disappearance from stage made quite a few heads turn in her direction. Some people whispered to each other that this stunning young woman was Christine Daae, and exchanged gossip regarding her mysterious disappearance from Paris.

"Excuse me – Mademoiselle Daae?"

Christine turned at the sound of her maiden name, still so familiar to her. "Yes?"

One man, beaming with delight, came up to her. He was in his forties, sporting a receding hairline. He was a little pump and on the short side, though still taller than Christine's petite stature. "Mademoiselle Daae," He kissed her hand. "My name is Thomas Greffers. I had the pleasure of hearing you sing the part of Elisa in _Hannibal_; you have a voice parallel to that of an angel's."

"Thank you," Christine answered modestly. "I had a great teacher." Unconsciously, she squeezed Erik's arm.

"Ah, and this gentleman is…?" Greffers acknowledged Erik inquisitively, seeming a little taken aback, but not daunted, by the mask.

"My husband, Monsieur Destler." Christine introduced with easy grace. Erik nodded curtly at the Englishman without speaking. Greffers turned back to Christine. "I couldn't help but notice you, Madame. I take it that you enjoy watching operas as well as singing in them?"

"It makes a nice change from taking part in the production." Christine replied, effortlessly taking part in the small talk. Erik, on the other hand, was much more impatient. This man obviously wanted something from Christine, he was more than a fan. Erik wished that Greffers would hurry up and get to the point; he hated people who beat around the bush, deliberately avoiding the topic of importance unless they approached it indirectly.

His attention wandered around the room. He listened in on several mundane conversations at the same time. Well-dressed people were leaving the opera house, filing out of the doors like a lazy trickle of water. The majority of men were lagging behind their wives, looking longingly towards the dressing rooms. Erik was immediately reminded of Philippe de Chagny and his fop of a brother, as well as half the regular patrons of the Opera Garnier. Erik had, more than once, seen ballerinas and chorus girls shamelessly engaging in various scandalous activities with wealthy patrons and managers alike. It really was a wonder that Christine, despite living her adolescent life in that building, had managed to stay away from these practices.

But then again, she had things more important in her life than simply _men_. She had been completely focused on her career and her music. And her Angel. There was no doubt that he had been a huge influence to her while she was growing up. Had he not been there, she might become just the same as the other ballet rats and chorus girls. No; Christine wouldn't do that, she was intrinsically different from the other girls in the chorus and ballet. She wouldn't give away her heart – or her body – for any man she did not truly care about. It was amazing how she could actually keep a sense of propriety; most of the other singers seemed to have no problem with ignoring decorum when it came to socializing with the opposite sex.

"I happen to be the casting manager for Her Majesty's Theatre. I was wondering would you be interested in making a guest appearance for our theatre sometime?" Erik's attention snapped back to the conversation at Greffers' request.

Erik turned him down immediately. "Christine is not –"

"Actually, I _am_ interested." Christine cut her husband off and gave him a meaningful look: _We'll talk about this later._

"Lovely!" Greffers' smile was pleased and triumphant. "So Madame, shall we make arrangements…? It would be ideal for you to sing on the night of August 14th, on our finale of our current production."

Christine looked questioningly up at Erik. He shrugged, and she confirmed it with Greffers. "I'll sing." She promised.

* * *

On the way home in the carriage, Erik remained silent. Of all his tempers and passions: loving; furious; grief-stricken; desperate, Christine hated this impassive silent mood the most. His face expressionless, his body language never betraying a single thought or emotion. It was as though he had become that hateful mask, shutting her out.

Erik stopped the carriage in front of their house. As usual, he got off first, and helped Christine off. Normally he would have the hint of a smile playing on his lips, and he would sometimes keep her hand after helping her off the carriage. Today, however, he was aloof and distant, like any common cab driver helping a lady off the carriage.

He started pulling his hand back; Christine held on to it firmly. He looked at her; his eyes glimmered with annoyance. Christine returned the look with a determined one. They needed to talk. "What did I do wrong?" She demanded.

"Why did you agree to sing?"

"Why _can't _I?" She shot back impetuously.

"I didn't think you wanted to, it's so soon after –"

"I'm doing this because I need to distract myself. I can't keep brooding over what's happened. I don't want to be there again, to be caught in self-pity."

"Well forgive me for trying to act in your best interest." Erik said with angry sarcasm. She glared at him, struggling to keep a sharp retort from tumbling out of her mouth. More sincerely, he said: "You know that I want the best for you."

"Oh, do you now?" She retorted bitingly. "Or is it because you don't want your wife to be a singer, a performer? Are you, of all people, succumbing to what society thinks of us?" As soon as she said it, she knew that it was a low blow. Erik would never judge her like that. Erik's eyes widened and he took a step back. "Oh God – Erik, I didn't mean it..." She put a hand on his arm. He jerked away from her touch. A deep, painful pang resonated within her, as though she had been shot in the heart.

"Please, Erik." He looked at her, eyes wide with remorse. "It was terrible, not to mention unfair, to accuse you of that."

He sighed; there was no way he could say no to those eyes, innocent as their kitten's, begging him for forgiveness. He stepped closer to her so that they were only a kiss apart. He saw her eyes light up with hope, and she looked up at him with slightly parted lips. His hands closed around her upper arms with a force that could have bruised her.

"It _was_ mean." He breathed.

"I know," She replied.

"And untrue."

She bit her lips. "Yes."

"And," He looked into her eyes. "It was very, very heartbreaking to hear you say it."

"I'm sorry, it was – "

He cut her off with his lips. She moaned against his mouth, desperately needing reassurance of his forgiveness. He pushed her against the door. He cupped her face in his slender hands, and she eagerly accepted his fervent kisses.

"I'm sorry," She breathed, framing his face with her hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She stroked his cheeks fervently.

"You're forgiven." Erik took her hands in his. He kissed her knuckles. "I'll always forgive you, if you ask for it."

She looked up at him with a rueful smile, remorse softening her expression. Her eyebrows slanted up in a gentle curve. "You're too good to me, when I am so undeserving of it."

He smoothed a hand over her curls to push them put of her eyes. "You forgave me for what I did." He said softly, referring to their time in Paris.

"Not after hurting you irrevocably." She whispered with remorse and self-reproach. "Why do I keep doing this? Why do I keep hurting you?" Her voice rose in desperation.

Erik exhaled slowly, pushing himself away from her. "You are still a child, my dear." He turned around so that he would not have to see her anguish in her eyes. "I cannot expect you to always know how to act, or what to say. I should not expect you to love a monster."

A small hand rested tentatively on his shoulder. Christine spoke in her golden soprano voice: "You are not a monster, my love." Erik turned to look at her, this girl, mature beyond her nineteen summers, and realized –she was a child no longer.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you guys liked that! This chapter and the next are sort of the "transitional chapters" between what I refer to "part 1" and "part 2" of the story when I am writing it. Erik and Christine have dealt with their relationship and have come to terms with it, they're happy with where they are now. Of course, drama will ensue...

Did anyone catch the reference to Her Majesty's Theatre? To those of you who don't know, it is the West End theatre where Phantom was premiered, and the theatre where it is still showing now. I did some research, and in the Victorian era, up until the early 20th century, operas were performed there. So it is entirely possible that Christine would have sung on that stage!

As always, please leave me a review to tell me what you think!


	18. Chapter 17: Begin Again

**Disclaimer: **Here is where I insert a witty remark saying that I am neither Leroux or Kay or ALW.

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**Chapter 17: Begin Again**

Christine sang the aria flawlessly. She had practiced with Erik every day for the past fortnight, until she regained her brilliance. She was technically perfect, as she always was. What made her truly spectacular was that she reached the depth of emotion demanded by the song. She was singing it for her husband and Angel, but even more so it was for Gustave.

"_Who knows when love begins  
Who knows what makes it start  
One day it's simply there  
Alive inside your heart_

_It slips into your thoughts_  
_It infiltrates your soul_  
_It takes you by surprise_  
_Then seizes full control_

_Try to deny it_  
_And try to protest_  
_But love won't let you go_  
_Once you've been possessed_

_Love never dies_  
_Love never falters_  
_Once it has spoken_  
_Love is yours_

_Love never fades_  
_Love never alters_  
_Hearts may get broken_  
_Love endures_  
_Hearts may get broken_  
_Love endures_

_And soon as you submit_  
_Surrender flesh and bone_  
_That love takes on a life_  
_Much bigger than your own_

_It uses you at whim_  
_And drives you to despair_  
_And forces you to feel_  
_More joy than you can bear_

_Love gives you pleasure_  
_And love brings you pain_  
_And yet when both are gone_  
_Love will still remain."_

From his private box, Erik watched proudly as her sweet tones rang through the opera house and each heart beat in sync with the music.

"The rumors about her voice are true," Flavio spoke from next to him. "It does parallel to that of an angel. But who would have imagined that her tutor is the devil?" He added with a smirk at his friend's direction.

"I will take that as a compliment about the splendid job I did teaching her." Erik chose to ignore the last comment. "She's always been a singer. She lost her passion for music after her father died, but I could tell that she has the natural talent for it."

"And that is why you tutored her?" Flavio pressed, genuinely curious about what caused the reclusive Erik to contact a child.

Erik thought for a moment, before replying. "Yes; I wouldn't impose voice lessons on someone who wouldn't excel in it. But it was also because I knew that she was different." Flavio cocked his head at an inquisitive angle, and so Erik explained. "As a child, she was shy, chose to isolate herself from the other ballerinas. Of course, she was a few years younger than most of them, with the exception of Meg Giry of course, who is almost two years her junior. But I digress; she was strangely unsocial for a girl of her age. She spent a lot of time by herself.

"When she first heard my voice, she thought I was the Angel of Music, sent to her by her father! Can you imagine that; a child hearing a mysterious voice sing, and believe it to be an Angel?" He shook his head, chuckling. "Any other girl would have been frightened, but no, she felt comforted. And the worship of music… I knew then that she was born for her art."

"_Once it has spoken  
Love is yours  
Love never dies  
Love never alters_

_Hearts may get broken_  
_Love endures_  
_Hearts may get broken_

_Love never dies_  
_Love will continue_  
_Love keeps on beating_  
_When you're gone_

_Love never dies_  
_Once it is in you_  
_Love may be fleeting_  
_Love lives on_  
_Love may be fleeting_  
_Love lives on."_

Chritine finished the aria with a powerful, ringing note. Thunder of applause shook the theater, and she smiled broadly with an expression of delight. As she curtsied at the audience, she looked in Erik's direction, and he could swear that her smile widened.

After the performance, Erik made arrangements to meet Flavio and Edward for dinner. He went to Christine's dressing room with a rose in hand. She arrived a few moments after him, grinning widely. "I'd almost forgotten how it feels like to sing onstage!" She exclaimed happily; his heart melted to see her so joyful.

"You were divine." With a flourish of his magician's hand, he produced the rose from behind her back. Delighted, she took the rose from him. He gave her a rose every time she performed, no matter how trivial her role, save her appearance in _Don Juan Triumphant_. She now knew that the rose from that night was the wedding dress – the wedding dress which a younger Christine had daydreamed of wearing. It was one of her heart's deepest secrets, one that she had not told any living person, that she had fantasized for her angel to marry her. She was only fifteen, sixteen. She wanted to be bound to her angel in every way, to belong to him completely.

Strange and ironic, she now mused as she fingered the rose's soft petals, that her younger self was so clear of what she wanted; yet an older Christine was filled with doubt! The realization brought a wistful smile to her lips. She shook away the nostalgic thoughts and spoke to Erik matter-of-factly. "So my return to stage was not a complete disaster, then?"

"Far from it." He reassured her. His praise made her beam with pride. The years with Erik as her teacher had taught her that his praise was hard earned. Though in these last two or three years he seemed to have grown less harsh; perhaps because of his feelings for her? But despite of all that had changed between them and their relationship, his approval still meant so much to her.

"Thank you." She said, heartfelt. She stood and wrapped her arms loosely around his neck.

A half-smile flickered briefly onto his lips. He rested his arms around her waist; it felt so natural to do so. "What for?"

"Believing in me. Teaching me to sing. I don't know what I would be if I couldn't sing." She stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against his. "For everything."

His smile widened as he kissed her again. One of his hands pressed against her shoulder blades, the other on the small of her back. They shared a long, lingering kiss, desiring nothing other than to feel the other's lips meld perfectly with their own.

"We should leave," Christine said breathlessly. Her cheeks were flushed, a few strands of her hair escaped from her bun. "We're meeting Flavio for dinner, remember?"

"Flavio can wait." Erik's arms tightened possessively around her torso. "I would rather stay here all night, I'm certain that we shall do well in entertaining ourselves." His smile turned devious as he leaned in to kiss her again, this time more hungrily. But she slipped nimbly out of his grasp. She tidied some things on her dresser with pink cheeks and downcast eyes, her hand moving clumsily among the already neatly organized objects. "Christine…" He murmured her name. His arms felt strangely empty, the coldness more acute without her warmth against his.

She stopped in her harsh movements. She looked at him, her eyes the colour of a rainy day. "Not now, Erik." She whispered. "Not so soon…" Her hands touched her abdomen unconsciously.

"Oh." He couldn't meet her eyes. Once again he hated himself; how could he be so inconsiderate? He had assumed that she would have forgotten the ordeal by now, just because she didn't cry or sit silently staring out the window with an impassive expression upon her face. He had to admit that she would never forget about it, or pretend that it had not happened. All he could do was allow her the time and space she needed to heal.

* * *

Flavio's eyes sparkled from behind his thin glasses. "A great start to your career, Christine." He tipped his glass of red wine towards her. "It was definitely successful."

After dinner, they had gone to Erik and Christine's home. Flavio had brought with him a bottle of strong wine, knowing that both himself and Erik were both appreciators of fine wine.

"Thank you," She returned the toast and took a sip of wine, trying to hide her grimace at the taste of it. While she was fond of light, sweet wines, she did not have a taste for this strong liquor. Flavio did not seem to notice the lightest hint of disgust on her face, but Erik did and gave her a teasing look at the corner of his eye. She met his golden gaze and raised her eyebrows fractionally. _What_? She asked silently.

He shook his head, his eyes sparkling with amusement. She glared at him.

"So," Flavio went on, appearing to be completely ignorant of the couple's silent quarrel. "Do you plan on continuing to sing in Her Majesty's Theatre?"

"We expect Greffers to make an offer soon," She answered. Flavio noted that she had undoubtedly discussed her career with Erik. "But if he doesn't, I'm auditioning in their next production; they're doing Hannibal." Her eyes, the most unique shade of blue-gray, sparkled with excitement like lively stars. "Although Elisa is an extremely demanding role…" Her eyes flickered towards Erik.

"Your Elisa is ten times that of Carlotta's." He reassured her with confidence.

She snorted in an unladylike manner. "The little boy singing for money on the street would make a better Elisa than her."

"True," Erik agreed, fighting to keep the smile off his lips. "Speaking of that plump, vicious toad, I've been told that she has retired and is no longer polluting the Opera Garnier with that shrill, hellish sound she calls 'singing'. Our beloved managers are now free from her terrorizing rule."

"You're on to talk about freeing our _beloved managers _from a _terrorizing rule_, Monsieur de l'Fantome," Christine retorted teasingly.

"Nonsense, I was merely offering amiable advice on their casting choices."

"Very amiable indeed," She muttered sarcastically. Erik smiled with humor and adoration. His fond half-smile made him look ten years younger. Glowing with the euphoria left from the night, Christine pressed herself lightly against him, and he tightened the arm around her waist to keep her close.

"You're an incredibly lucky devil, you know that?" Flavio remarked, a glint of envy in his eyes as he watched Christine move into a more comfortable position, snuggling up to Erik and resting her head on his chest.

"I know." Erik agreed, winding the arm around Christine's waist to take one of her hands.

"He deserves it," Christine butted in. "After all, he gave me my voice, reminded me of the joy music can bring, became my guardian."

Flavio's expression clouded over. "Not every one is repaid for their sacrifices." He said darkly. "But somehow, those that gave the most got the least in return."

* * *

Only two days after her London debut, Christine received a letter from Greffers with an offer for the role of Elisa in the upcoming production of Hannibal. _If you ask it, then the part is yours. We would rather have no one else play Elisa. However, as you are not yet a part of our company, procedure indicates that you must audition. But the role is yours, and the audition is but to make it official._

She read the letter again for the fifteenth time, still beaming so much that her cheeks ached. She laughed out loud, her eyes once again roaming through that letter which she must have memorized by now.

"Christine, are you not tired of that letter?" Her head shot up at the sound of Erik's deep chuckle.

She smiled self-consciously and shrugged, turning to her husband. He beckoned for her to come. She happily obeyed, walking over to where he sat in armchair in the library. As she rose, her skirts fell gracefully about her, complimenting her form. The golden sunlight highlighted all the shades in her hair. Mahogany and auburn streaked the lush chestnut and chocolate locks. She looked like an angel, her luscious hair reflecting the light almost like a halo around her head.

She rarely wore her hair in the tight bun expected of married women. She knew how much Erik liked it when she wore it down. He would run his fingers languidly through the curls, a soft sigh falling, the corners of his lips gently upturned in an unconscious smile. And secretly, she loved it when he did that.

Presently, her characteristically unruly curls had escaped from a chignon. Most of it was still in place, but a few strands framed her heart-shaped face, making it look more exquisitely doll-like. She was flushed with excitement. Her grey eyes shone with life, her lips in a half-smile that was innocent and coy at the same time.

"Yes?" She sat down on the arm of his chair. She snaked her arms around his shoulders, leaning her head into the space between his head and shoulder.

Her curls brushed his cheek, her hands rested casually over his chest, her faint scent of roses filling his nose... _Why is it so hard to concentrate_?! He chastised himself mentally. Her presence was highly distracting; he could not remember why he had asked her to come over.

"Erik?" She breathed, her whisper sweetly seductive to his ears. Her breath caressed his cheek like a summer breeze that smelled of roses. "What is it?" She pressed her lips to his cheek.

He turned his head to take her mouth with his own. She complied with a contented sigh, her graceful hands peeling off the mask and settling on his cheeks. He kissed her hungrily, burying his hands in her curls, freeing them from their confinement. He could never get enough of this: the pleasured whimpers she made, her lips on his mouth, her perfect skin against his marred flesh. So he sought more, and she gave it all to him, gladly letting his hands wander down her back and deftly undo the strings of her dress.

Night fell to find Christine lying on Erik's chest, her fingers tracing each repulsive scar on his skin. They had moved to one of the sofas in the library. Erik was lying face up, an arm draped across Christine's back. His fingers trailed down her smooth, creamy skin and the graceful curve of her spine. Outside, twilight had descended, bathing everything in a calm wash of ultramarine and navy.

Christine shivered involuntarily; it was autumn, and with it came early sunsets and cool evenings. "Are you cold?" Erik's arms curled around her protectively and she shook her head, her now-disheveled curls brushing his chest and chin. Erik hugged her, rubbing her exposed back, cooled from the evening air.

They lay there for an eternity, listening to each other's breathing. There was nothing that could complete their world more. In each other, they had found freedom. It came in the form of someone who was both a friend and a lover, someone who breathed music, someone who understood and accepted them, someone who was a partner in their marriage.

"Erik?" Christine stirred. She kissed a whitened scar on hic chest.

"Yes, my angel?"

"I am sorry that I cannot give you children." She said regretfully. "It is my duty, as a wife, to bear your children, but I have failed in even that."

"Don't say that!" He admonished fiercely. "I did not marry you for the sake of having an heir. I married you because I love you, my darling. Don't you dare to even think you are not good enough. Ten children would mean nothing to me if you are not here to share them with me."

"But don't you want children?" She pressed, her eyes anxiously searching his face.

Erik shook his head. "You are more than enough, Christine. You don't have to give me anything – it is not your duty. You are not obliged to anything; you _do _remember our wedding morning?"

She nodded. "I love you." She murmured. Although he could not see her face, he could hear the smile in her voice. "For being so patient with me. So understanding of my tempers. So kind to my weaknesses. So accepting of my flaws." She propped herself up on her elbows and said with sincerity. "You're beautiful, Erik." And she kissed his forehead; kissed that place where the two halves of his face merged together; kissed both the monster and the man; the Phantom and the Angel.

And in that moment, he believed her without a doubt. For the first time, he let her expose him to the beauty inside himself. For the first time, he accepted himself as something more than a murderer and a monster. For the first time, he saw what she saw. She had released him from his own ugliness, and set free the angel within.

* * *

_A fortnight later_

Two young men passed by the opera house. They were dressed handsomely like the noblemen that they were. The older of the two was in his early thirties, with dark hair and similarly dark stubble sporting his chin. He was handsome, with sapphire eyes that sparkled with both cunning and humor. The younger man, his friend, was no older than twenty-two, and still possessed a boyish charm.

"See!" The dark-haired man gestured at a poster outside the opera house. It was for the house's coming production of _Faust_. "I told you that Christine Daae is singing here."

"Yes, you did," The blond agreed mildly. "But I must admit, Pierre; I thought you were no longer a fan of hers."

"Speak for yourself." Pierre retorted good naturally. "Shall we see the opera? It premieres in a week, a day before we return to France."

"If you want to." His companion shrugged nonchalantly.

"Pretending you're over her already?" Pierre grinned peevishly.

"It's been half a year, that's plenty of time to recover. And I am betrothed, or have you forgotten?" The younger man looked a little irritated by his friend's teasing.

"But you don't love Lady du Gaulle the way you loved Christine." Pierre said knowingly. As his companion did not reply, he pushed. "I am correct, am I not, de Chagny?"

"Yes, you are." Raoul de Chagny looked up with shamed fury.

* * *

**A/N: **THE FOP RETURNS! DUN DUN DUUUN!

This was originally supposed to be two chapters, but that would be a little tedious. So I combined them and so now, you have a long chapter! I just needed to get this stuff out of the way and make Raoul hurry the heck up and come back.

So, review please? :]


	19. Chapter 18: Twisted Every Way

******Disclaimer: **I own nothing recognizable.

* * *

**Chapter 18: Twisted Every Way**

Seated in a luxurious private box in the Her Majesty's Theatre, the Vicomte de Chagny awaited impatiently. Why was Christine here? Had the monster brought her here, forced her to sing once more? If she was given the freedom to sing on stage, why did she not escape, or at least attempt to contact Raoul? What was the nature of her relationship with the Phantom? Raoul shuddered at the though of his innocent, gentle Christine being forced to be that freak's whore.

Two boxes away from the Vicomte, Erik noted the qualities in his angel's voice as she sang. Her debut was over a year ago, when she was only eighteen. Since then her voice had changed greatly. It had matured with age, losing the sweet tones of a soubrette yet maintaining its clarity. It was powerful, with an undertone of strength, hinting at the potential of her vocal abilities.

In act three, Christine appeared once more to sing _Think of Me_, the aria with which she had risen to fame overnight almost two years ago.

Raoul gripped the railing of his box. She looked just like she did on the night of her debut, when she was a fresh-faced chorus girl gifted with an angel's voice. Her face was shining with emotion; her heavenly voice rang with the sadness of her song. Was she singing for Raoul, telling him that she wished she could live by his side?

Christine, smiling in exhilaration, curtsied to a standing ovation. Her eyes shone as she looked about the audience. Even though she had been singing professionally for half her life, the applause and praise every night never failed to amaze her.

Raoul, too, stood up as he applauded. Next to him, Pierre smirked, clapping with somewhat lest zeal than the younger man. He knew that Raoul had never gotten over Christine. He had watched his friend search for his disappeared bride, cursing the monster that snatched her. Raoul had become a madman in his desperate search.

After months of combing through Paris and the surrounding areas, it became apparent that Christine was gone for good. Raoul seemed to have accepted this fact, the fervor fading. He once more became the sweet, kind boy he used to be. When Philippe de Chagny arranged for him to marry Marianne du Gaulle, a wealthy heiress and the daughter of a lord, Raoul accepted it without complaint, despite the fact that he had no love for her. She was beautiful and even tempered, a far cry from the snobbish young ladies in aristocratic circles. She was a good match for Raoul, in both temperament and status.

But Pierre had seen how devastated Raoul had been after Christine. He suspected that in some unacknowledged corner of Raoul's heart, his wounds still had not completely healed. Pierre wished him a happy marriage with Lady du Gaulle, but he knew that Raoul was intent on having Christine.

Now, seeing his friend jump to his feet in excitement, Pierre's suspicions were confirmed. Raoul was, indeed, still head over heels for the soprano.

After the performance, Christine returned to her dressing room, accepting congratulations on the successful show. Although she was new to the company, her cast-mates' praise was genuine. She humbly responded to each compliment with heart-felt thanks.

As soon as Christine stepped into her dressing room she saw Erik at her dresser, a red rose in his hand. He stood as she entered, extending the rose towards her. She took it with a smile. "Tell me that I shone tonight." She was beaming, her sexpression alight with life.

"You were unbelievably fantastic." He returned with his half-smile. He pulled her closer to him with a hand on her back, so that their noses brushed each other's. He pecked her on the lips before pulling away. "I'll ready the carriage, Madame Destler." The use of her married name made her heart skip a beat in excitement.

"I'll be out in fifteen minutes." Christine promised. While Erik left the dressing room, she slipped behind the screen to change. She had only just taken off her costume and donned a simple evening dress when a series of quick raps sounded from the door, followed by the door opening.

She stepped out from behind the screen to meet the boyishly charming face and baby blue eyes of Raoul de Chagny.

"Little Lotte…" He choked.

"Raoul…" His name slipped past her unguarded lips. She regained her composure quickly. "Monsieur le Vicomte." She managed to stop her voice from wavering. She knew how to mask her emotions, how to remain calm despite anything.

"Why the formality, Little Lotte?" He said desperately, taking her hand.

She pulled it back. "We are no more than mere acquaintances." She felt immediately guilty as she saw the injured pride written clearly on his face. Raoul, who has never been rejected. Raoul, who never had to hide any feelings. Raoul, who never needed a mask. "Things have changed, Raoul." She added more gently.

He held her by the shoulders. "Is it he?" The young man's brow was drawn. Hope was scrawled upon his face, desperate hope that there was an explanation for her aloof behavior. "It is he, who is forcing you upon that stage!" She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her, his grip on her upper arms tightening. "I could see it, Christine; when you sang that song _Think of Me_, you were singing it for me, for the life we could have had. We can have that again, I can rescue you from the monster –"

"He is no more a monster than you are!" She said vehemently. "There is no kinder, more loving husband than him."

"_Husband_?" Rage contorted the Vicomte's handsome features. "That half-faced freak forced you into _marriage_?"

"He did not force me into anything; not into singing and certainly _not_ into marriage. He never would."

"Don't you remember that night? He forced you to choose. Your freedom or my life. Would you so willingly forget that?"

"I have not forgotten, but I _have _forgiven him." She met Raoul's accusing gaze. "And have _you_ forgotten that he let us go for the sake of my happiness? Do you know what that cost him?"

"Nothing he did not deserve!" He retorted hot-headedly. "Don't forget, Christine, that he caused me that same pain when he took you from me."

Her eyes narrowed, burning with cold flame. "You have _no idea _what it was like for him. To have every ounce of goodness and light that was ever in your life to be taken from you. And let's not forget the fact that I left _voluntarily_." She emphasized the word. "I'm not simply an object that two men fight for like children squabbling over a toy. I am a living person who is completely capable of making her own decisions. And I have chosen. I choose Erik."

"Is it he who commands you to say such things in his defense?"

"I say such things according to my own will. No one can make me say what I do not wish to."

"Then why? I know that he is keeping you caged like a bird."

"I love him, Raoul!" She blurted out. "If love is a prison then I will gladly remain captive."

A look of deep hurt was open upon his face. "You cannot mean that, Little Lotte." He whispered, crushed.

"I _do _mean it. _I love him_; is that so hard to believe?" She glanced at the clock. To her alarm she realized that it had been almost half an hour since Erik left her dressing room, and she had promised to be out in fifteen minutes. "I must go." She said hastily. Before closing the door behind her, she looked at Raoul with an unguarded expression that was like the old Christine; like _his_ Christine. "I'm sorry." She murmured gently, before disappearing down the hall.

Raoul stood there for a few moments, shock leaving him immobilized. When he regained his senses and rushed to the door, the corridor was empty. Once again like the night of her debut, she slipped away from him.

Christine found her husband waiting for her with a carriage just outside the theatre. By this time most of the patrons had left and the street outside had quieted significantly. Erik was starting to grow agitated by her delay.

As she left the building, Erik relaxed. The irrational nagging worry, minuscule and irrational as it was, left him. But it returned quickly. He could sense her distress in her rushed steps and drawn brow. She lacked the usual enthusiasm he expected from her, especially after her premier. He remembered how lighthearted and spirited she had been when he left her in the dressing room. Now her demeanor was agitated and strangely subdued.

She didn't speak to him, simply took his hand wordlessly. In the same silence, he helped her into the cab. Almost as soon as he closed the door behind them, she crushed her lips against his, kissing him so fiercely that it was more than mere passion; it was with desperation. She was kissing not because she wanted to be kissed, but because she _needed_ to be kissed. An acute and physical need for comfort. Her hands fisted themselves in his lapels, drawing him closer. Contrasting sharply against the chaste brush of their lips in the dressing room simply half an hour ago, her mouth now was hungry, each kiss deep and urgent. He complied with her advances, though with less ardor than she. He was calm, her protector and comforter, her guide and guardian.

As their kisses calmed her, she eventually pulled back, settling in his strong arms. He didn't speak as their carriage rolled over the cobblestones of London. He knew that she would tell him what was wrong. In the duration of their marriage both of them had learned to trust the other with their secrets and worries. Admittedly, Erik had much more to learn in terms of opening himself to another, but little by little, he did. He knew that Christine was no longer a child and could handle the truth. She was his friend and confidant as much as he was hers.

He rested his chin on top of her head. "You know I'll be here to listen, when you are ready to talk."

She nodded, curls brushing his chin, but did not speak. She could handle it on her own. Part of her felt guilty for not telling him the truth, but she reasoned that it was for the best. His reaction was unpredictable, but an overreaction was inevitable. "Do you trust me?" She asked, her piercing grey eyes staring into his as though she could read his soul.

"Completely." He answered immediately, his voice certain. She allowed herself to marvel at how his insecurities have faded away. But then again, he didn't know that this was about his former rival. Guilt was pricking at her conscience. But telling him the truth would do more harm than good.

Erik kissed the top of her head. "I can call off our meeting with Flavio, if you want to."

Christine shook her head, loose curls bouncing around her face wildly. "No, I want to catch up with Edward. It's been too long since I last saw him!" She put on a smile. Hopefully this occurrence with Raoul would fade if she stopped thinking about it. And the best way to do that was to keep herself occupied.

* * *

**A/N: **Just when things start to go alright for Erik and Christine, another storm appears on the horizon. "Happily ever after" isn't exactly Erik's style.

I'm glad that chapter's over! It was a terrible one to write. I tried so hard but it still is rather crappy. I hope it was worth the wait. As always, please review and let me know what you think.


	20. Chapter 19: Deal

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Phantom, Erik/Christine would be canon.

* * *

**Chapter 19: Deal**

Flavio Morino was observant. He was smart. He was patient. He had an innate gift for _reading people_. And now, something was clearly amiss with the diva of Her Majesty's Theatre. He saw how Christine seemed subdued. The subtle crease of her brow betrayed her worry. Her laughter sounded a little forced. Her smiles did not reach her eyes. She lacked the energy and zest that usually rolled off her in waves. The signs of her distress were not obvious. She was, after all, an actress, and a brilliant one at that. However, for all her talent and skill, she could not deceive two of the most perceptive men in the world.

For Erik noticed her discomfort too. Flavio saw how Erik's eyes kept darting to Christine. Flavio knew that the masked man noticed the same things he did; probably even more due to his superior knowledge of Christine.

After dinner at the Destler house with Flavio and Edward, they once again retired to the drawing room. Flavio asked Erik about his latest project, the design of a summer home for a Duchess in southern England. He was beginning to earn an esteemed reputation as an architect. His talent and taste were admired and rewarded with handsome pay, and an increasing proportion of his clients were members of the nobility.

"The designs are almost complete, save for the Western wing." Erik was saying presently. "I have an idea of what I want, though I have yet to work out the details."

"Maybe I will get my husband back then." Christine teased with a little smile as she squeezed Erik's hand lightly.

He chuckled in response. "You will; I promise." He answered, cat-like eyes glinting at her fondly from behind his mask.

"And what of that estate up in Scotland, the one you designed for William Stepford?" Flavio enquired, pretending not to notice their exchange. He tended to ignore these interactions between Erik and Christine. Erik knew that it was because Flavio was scornful of love and its joys. He wondered briefly just how deep his friend's resentment for love was.

"Building will be complete soon, my work is done." He answered Flavio's question, impassive as ever. No trace of his internal thoughts had slipped into his expression.

"And then the architect will be needed again, won't he, for the opening party?" The Italian said calmly. "Stepford is an esteemed businessman; an opening party will certainly be thrown in honour of the completion of the estate."

"It won't be simple, either." Erik agreed gloomily. "With his status, every man he wants to impress will be in that room, admiring his house." He sighed. "I wish I didn't have to go." He complained. "Social niceties are so tiring, I wonder why anyone bothers to put up with them."

Flavio shook his head. "You're not going to attend anyway; why trouble over it?" The conversation migrated into areas regarding politics and power play, and Christine, uninterested, slipped out of it.

Edward fidgeted at the edge of his seat, looking uncomfortable. "Do you want to go to the stables?" Christine asked the fourteen year old. His eyes lit up and he nodded. He was still introverted as ever; age had done nothing to bring him out of his shell, especially around Flavio. However, Christine had noticed that he seemed be the most comfortable around animals, especially horses.

Edward was different in the stables. He was relaxed, as though he could be himself without fear of being punished for it. He moved from horse to horse, murmuring soft words to each as he scratched their shining flanks and presented them with sugar cubes.

Christine watched the boy, short for his age and a little underweight, calmly stroke Erik's stallion. The spirited animal towered over him, completely placid under his touch.

Christine ran her own fingers down her mare's neck, rubbing Aria's pale gray coat. The mare nickered softly, a content sound of enjoyment.

"How was your performance?" Edward asked, coming to sit on the gate of Aria's box. He produced a lump of sugar from his pocket. The mare's velvety lips brushed his palm as she took the treat.

"The performance itself? Not bad, it's a familiar role for me, it was the first leading role I've taken on in Paris." She smiled at the memory of her days in the Garnier. But in retrospect, she realized that _Hannibal _had been the catalyst for the chain of events that followed. The night of her debut was the night her two suitors came into her life. The choice that Erik had forced her to make in the cellars – her freedom or Raoul's life – had really been presented to her the night of her debut. The drastic decision which he coerced her into was the escalation of Raoul's return into her life and his obvious interest in her.

The thought of her former lover brought the more recent memory of him to mind. The scene in her dressing room played put before her eyes once again. When she left Raoul, she gave him no explanation for her disappearance. It really was no wonder that he assumed it was Erik who kidnapped her; took the Vicomte's bride-to-be against her will, just when she was on the cusp of belonging to Raoul.

"Christine." Edward's hesitant voice brought her out of the chaos of her thoughts. "Are you alright?" He was scrutinizing her with undiluted concern in his eyes.

"I'm fine," Her smile was lacking in convincement. Edward regarded her with expression of disbelief. She sighed in frustration. It was excruciating to not be able to confide in Erik, her best friend and partner. But if she could not talk to her husband, she could unburden herself to Edward, couldn't she? After all, she had grown to love and trust him as a friend, almost as she would a brother. "After the performance today I ran into my former…" She could not bring herself to say the word _lover_. "A man I used to know." She decided on saying. "He came to my dressing room. I had been engaged to him, for a short time." She gave Edward a guilty look. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger, as though to remind herself that she was, indeed, married to Erik.

Edward nodded slowly, taking in this information. "And what did he want?" He asked matter-of-factly.

"Raoul wanted me to leave Erik for him." Christine admitted in a shameful whisper. She kept her gaze on Edward, watching his reaction. The boy's eyes widened, but he did not speak. Instead he let her continue: "He has had a bad history with Erik, because they were both in love with me. And now, he does not believe that I love Erik."

"And does Monsieur Erik know?" Edward asked hesitantly. Christine shook her head. "You should tell him." He said, dark eyes flashing with uncharacteristic intensity.

"No!" Christine gasped in adamancy. "This is something that I can handle. Erik loathes Raoul so much, I don't want him to do something reckless."

Edward was unconvinced. "What if that man finds you again?" He reasoned. "You won't be able to keep this from Monsieur Erik for long, you know, especially if Raoul pays another visit to your dressing room."

Christine sighed, knowing that Edward was right. She had always been bad at lying to Erik. "If he finds me again I'll tell Erik." She promised. Edward nodded, grudgingly satisfied. "But you have to promise me – before that, don't let Erik know."

"Fine." He resigned. "But you _must_ tell Monsieur Erik."

* * *

"I swear to you, Pierre!" Raoul exclaimed heatedly. "I met Christine in her dressing room tonight. She slipped away so soon, almost as though she were a ghost."

"I don't doubt you." Pierre's answer was guarded as he swirled the wine around in his glass. He could not deny that he had his reservations concerning Christine. After all, she _did _hurt Raoul; even if she had been taken by force, she now appeared to be free. There was nothing that stopped her from returning to Raoul, but instead she fled from him, without so much as an explanation as to her sudden disappearance.

But despite his misgivings, he had to admit that she brought life and spirit to Raoul. Since her disappearance, Raoul had been even-tempered and subdued. When he was with her he seemed energetic and hopeful. He seemed in love. Even the mere glimpse of her brought out an animation in Raoul that Pierre had not seen for months.

"It's that monster, I know it's him." Raoul was still pacing the floor in aggravation. "He must have forced her into performing once again. He must have made her to swear her faithfulness to him. Perhaps even – even to marry him." Disgust was written plainly in his features. And desperation, too. Because no man in his position would be willing to accept that the woman he loves has gone to the bed of his rival.

"Perhaps it is wise for us to return to Paris tomorrow." Pierre suggested mildly, in fear of evoking Raoul's sudden bout of madness. "You do have a fiancée waiting for you back home."

Raoul repeated softly. "Perhaps it is wise." He sighed and mentally shook himself, bringing himself out of his thoughts. "I'm going out for a drink. This is, after all, our last night in London."

Raoul found a bar not too far from his hotel. He had plans to spend the remainder of the evening in the company of beautiful women who were all too easily charmed by his handsome features and French accent. Women had always willing come to him; the next morning they left his bed with the same ease. To his intense surprise, no sooner had he sat down that a grey-haired man claimed the seat next to him, offering to buy his drink. As Raoul looked at the man with poorly veiled annoyance, the stranger spoke quietly in accented English. "You are Raoul de Chagny. You were Christine Daae's fiancé."

Raoul literally froze in shock. "_How do you know_?"

The man smirked. "I know many things about Christine." His eyes spoke of a peaceful acceptance, numb in its bliss. They were captivating, hypnotizing as a cobra's stare. He lowered his voice even further so that Raoul had to lean in to catch the whispered words among the clamor of the pub. "And I even know about the man who took her."

"So she _was _taken!" Raoul breathed in triumph. His entire countenance lit up with fervor. "I _knew _she wouldn't just have left me like that…" He looked at the stranger with an excited blue gaze. "Tell me all that you know, Monsieur, for I intend to take her back to France as my bride."

"How about this," The stranger said in that same unruffled tone. "I can help you get the woman, if you do exactly as I say."

"Why should I trust you?" Raoul asked with guarded interest. "How do I know that you are telling the truth?"

The stranger smirked coldly. "I know… _things _about the man who took her. He is wanted in France for various crimes, including terrorizing and blackmailing the Opera Garnier, where he adopted the title of 'Opera Ghost'. Before settling in France, he has travelled the world extensively, and he has taken an active part in – even organizing – many heinous activities, most of them assassination and murder. And I know…" He paused, malice flashing across his eyes. "Erik Destler has history with Christine Daae." He met Raoul's shocked gaze with a triumphant look. "Is this enough to please you, Vicomte? You do believe me now that I possess information you need? Are you willing to do as I say, to undermine Destler and cause his undoing, with the woman as your reward?"

Two men shook hands in the darkened corner of the pub.

* * *

A week later, Christine received a letter from Meg. Her friend's penmanship, as familiar as her own, was in neat lines over the page. The night she had seen Raoul, Christine had written Meg casually asking for news on Raoul. She had not let on that Raoul had been seeking her out; only expressed concern and interest in her childhood friend's life.

To her great disappointment, Meg had only devoted a paragraph of her lengthy letter on the topic.

_I haven't seen the Vicomte much since he stopped in his search for you. He has stopped coming to the theatre regularly. I do know that he is currently engaged to Lady Marianne du Gaulle. Their engagement was publicly announced in the newspapers about a month ago. They appear, by all means, to be a fair match. Mother says that it is obvious they are marrying for political reasons and not for love. I suppose that she is right; he does not appear besotted with her as he was with you._

Christine's eyes widened as she read the information. It appalled her that Raoul had the audacity to plea for her return, while there was a lady waiting for him in Paris. His fiancee was from aristocracy, and her family was a well-respected one that equaled Raoul's own in influence and wealth. During her own short engagement to Raoul, Christine had met Lady Marianne du Gaulle several times. The girl was Christine's junior by several years. She must be about sixteen now, a young but unsurprising match for Raoul, who was in his early twenties. It was doubtlessly a marriage for power and money, instead of one of love.

Christine sighed in exasperation, feeling her heart sink like a rock dropping to the bottom of the sea. The letter confirmed what she had suspected but never admitted. Raoul's heart was still her's, at least partially. And she knew that the things which men dare to do in the name of love are the most unpredictable of all.

* * *

Over the next week of performances, Christine saw Raoul backstage every night, and she had heard from her cast mates' gossip, whispered behind hands, that a handsome young Frenchman had been asking for her after performances. The cast members did not know of his identity, or of his former relationship to her. To them, Raoul was simply a wealthy admirer of the diva, clearly unaware of her devotion to her husband.

So far, Christine had managed to avoid him, using her knowledge of the opera house's passages to escape from another encounter with him. She had asked her usual coachman to pick her up at the back door to avoid the possibility of Raoul waiting for her at the door of the opera house. The likelihood of that was higher than she liked to admit.

After her performance one night, Christine once again returned to her dressing room. Tonight there was no Phantom waiting for her, as her husband was staying home adding the final touches of splendor and elegance to the Duchess's new holiday home.

"Christine!" A certain Vicomte burst into her dressing room. Christine had to suppress a sigh of annoyance. After their last encounter, did he really not understand that she wanted him to leave her alone?

"I believe, Monsieur le Vicomte, that I told you not to seek me out again." She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"I understand everything now." Raoul ignored her ill-tempered demeanor. He looked excited and impatient, like a schoolboy who had finally grasped a concept that had long evaded his understanding. "I've been told that you were taken from my estate, kidnapped by the madman."

"You assume so because you can't fathom that I love him."

Raoul ignored her as he rambled on. "I can take you back to France, and we will marry like we were supposed."

"Have you lost your mind?" Christine looked at him with skepticism. She could not believe that he actually had the audacity to ask her to leave with him. "Are you honestly suggesting that I elope with you? You are engaged, Raoul!"

"Marianne is nothing. I will gladly leave her for you."

"You would forsake her like I had once forsaken you?" She was appalled. "I thought that you of all people would never voluntarily hurt another. I never thought you would change."

"I have not changed!" He protested adamantly. "How I feel about you hasn't, and never will change. Remember our promises, Little Lotte!" He demanded. "_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_; or have you forgotten?"

"That life has passed." She answered stonily. "I am no longer your Little Lotte, Raoul. She has grown up."

"Then I will gladly take Christine, or whoever you choose to be!" He cried passionately. "Come with me back to France, and you will have every luxury you desire. You will be a Vicomtesse."

"Trapped, smothered, denied freedom." She retorted. "_That_ would be my fate as a Vicomtesse. I cannot live without music. And I cannot live without _him_, without the Angel of Music."

"Even after all these years, he is still your angel?" Raoul looked incredulous. "Has he fed you more lies; more deceit? Please, Christine, do not live in a dream."

"It is _you_ who are living in a dream. You have deluded yourself into thinking that I have been taken against my will." She regarded him with fiery anger in her eyes. "Do not find me any more. I do not wish for this argument any longer." When he made no move, she said icily. "Please leave, Raoul."

He said with clouded determination: "I'll break his hold on you, Christine. I swear it."

"_Leave_." She all but snarled.

And he did, looking wounded and frustrated.

With a groan Christine dropped onto her dressing stool. She buried her forehead in her head, breathing deeply. She could not break down and cry. It was not an option. She was no longer a child, she was a grown woman and she must deal with the consequences of her choices.

She thought that she would be able to leave the past behind her when she left Paris, but Raoul's unexpected appearance as proof that the past would haunt her until she completely settled it. The confrontation was inevitable; he would not be willing to let her be without an explanation, especially now that he knew of Erik's involvement.

Christine wanted to tell Erik so much. She needed his advice. She needed his reassurance that they would get through this fine. She needed to know that she wasn't alone.

She shook herself with impatience. _What is wrong with you, Christine_? She mentally chastised herself. She wanted all those things, yes, but she did not _need_ them. She would not be the child she once was, the one who was weak, the one who was so dependent. She could deal with this alone.

Her promise to Edward came back at her with crippling clarity. Admittedly, it was wise to ask for Erik's help. It was certainly a better idea than keeping him in the dark, whatever excuse she chose for not telling him.

Taking a deep breath, Christine looked up at the mirror, composed herself, and walked out of the dressing room.

* * *

**A/N: **This has been a hectic and exhausting week, so I apologize for the poor quality of this chapter. Also, I'm sorry that it's so repetitive. It WILL get better soon, I promise. Also, there is some E/C fluff coming up soon.

Review = preview!


	21. Chapter 20: Deja Vu

**Disclaimer: **No, I'm not a fan, I'm secretly Leroux returned from the dead.

**Warning: **A bit of E/C sexy time in this chapter, simply because they need it. Nothing too explicit though.

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**Chapter 20: Deja Vu**

As soon as she returned home, Christine ran up the stairs to her husband's study. Erik's study was on the third floor of the house, next to their bedroom. As she entered, she saw Tempest stretched out on the desk over Erik's scattered papers, lazily licking a white paw. Erik did not notice her entrance, engrossed by his work.

A building was coming to life on the page. The stick of graphite, wielded within the architect's long fingers, danced madly upon the sheet of paper. Christine smiled fondly at him from the doorway, her heart tugging in a pleasant way. The sight of him after a hard day never failed to brighten her spirits. "Hello." She called softly.

His head shot up. He had obviously been completely mesmerized in his work. Even ghosts do let down their guard at times. Erik leaned back in his chair at the sight of Christine. She looked a little flustered, a few strands of rich mahogany curls escaped from her chignon. He could never get enough of the way she looked at him. He has long since accepted that she loved him, but even then the naked emotion in her eyes affected him so.

Erik gracefully rose from his chair and walked around the desk as Christine entered the room. He met her halfway across the study. Their mouths met sweetly with the joy of reunion. Erik tenderly cupped her jaw with his bony hands. Christine's weariness was momentarily banished by the refreshing kiss.

"How is my little primma donna?" Erik asked with his lilting voice.

She sighed and hugged Erik in response, wanting nothing but to hold him close. "That bad?" He murmured. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew that she had to tell him, but couldn't find the words to.

"Do you want to talk to me about it?"

"Just having one of those days where nothing seems to go right." Christine shrugged, faking nonchalance. "I'm fine." She forced a brave smile onto her face and stepped back. "Can you go riding with me?" _I'll tell him when we're riding_. She promised to herself. Being around horses seemed to relax them both.

"Christine, it's dark outside." He raised an eyebrow. He was right; it was nearing midnight.

"It's a starry night."

"It's cold."

"It could take my mind off things." She protested. "Come on, Erik, we both need a break from work." She said coyly, but Erik sensed a falter in her seemingly carefree mien. There was something troubling her, like a dark undertone to a piece of music, concealed but not quite absent.

Erik relented. "If my primma donna insists." He squeezed her hand. "Why don't you go and get changed? I'll meet you at the stables."

Fifteen minutes later, Christine had saddled up her Aria. Erik was on his stallion Iago. Christine was right: despite the absence of the moon, the inky heavens were dotted with sparkling specks of light, illuminating the grounds. Almost immediately she urged her horse into a canter. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, sharpening her senses. Under the limited light, the darkened shadows seemed more pronounced. The scent of fresh grass was acute. The wind that whipped past her face was bitingly chilly. The rocking motion of the horse under her was familiar and exciting at once. The thought of Raoul faded from her mind, as though physical distance could rid her mind of him.

Feeling more carefree than she had been in a while, Christine challenged: "I'll race you to the pond!"

"I'm certain that I will win." Erik retorted. Iago had the advantage in strength and size, but the mare, despite her smaller build, was nimble and sure-footed. Erik watched Christine as she rode. Her mare's pale gray coat was almost glowing in the starlight. Her wild curls, free of their confines, bounced as she rode. She was at one with her horse, pulsing with power.

"Erik, I'm about to get there!" She called, bringing him out of his daze. He urged Iago to catch up with Christine.

As they neared the large pond, Christine dismounted and pulled her mare over to the water to let her drink. Erik, too, slipped nimbly from Iago's back.

Breathless, Christine was grinning in exuberance as she locked her eyes with Erik's. Her cheeks were rosy from the ride, her chest rising and falling with each deep breath. Her eyes were alight, bright and sparkling like the stars above them.

"My beautiful…" The murmured words slipped from his tongue without his noticing it. She ducked her head, the blush deepening as she busied herself with patting her mare's neck and bestowing praise on the creature. Through dark lashes, she snuck a glance at Erik.

Chuckling to himself, Erik drew Iago up next to Aria, allowing his horse to drink. The starlight was reflected on the water, the waves throwing shimmering light upon their faces.

Christine's hushed words spoke exactly what Erik had been thinking. "This looks like the clearing you showed me, with the lake, when we first came to England… where we danced." The clearing where she revealed to him that she was with child. Once again, her conscience pricked at her to remind her that this time, there was yet another secret she should admit to him.

He smiled at her, the half-smile she treasured so. "May I have a dance, Madame?"

"Oui, Monsieur." She returned with a teasing smile as she placed her hand in his. Her other hand came to rest at his shoulder, and his was at the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. They swayed slowly to match the rhythm of their heartbeats. Reflected by the lake, the luster of the stars was twice as luminous. The water threw silvery strands of light around the clearing. Their glow was bright as lightning yet soft as candlelight.

Christine's porcelain skin was illuminated by the light. The smooth curves of her sweet face, her delicate hands. Erik's disfigurement was painfully clear in the starlight, exaggerating every unnatural dent and bulge. Christine's loving gaze took in every familiar detail of his face. There was no trace fear or disgust in those indigo eyes now. Only understanding, and acceptance, and love.

"Thank you." He murmured. "For being so willing to accept me. For learning to see past this monstrosity."

She smiled, a soft breath escaping her. "I've told you many times; your face holds no horror for me." Her fingertips ghosted down his scarred cheek. "You're so insecure, Erik." She teased lightly, resting her palm on his right jaw and rubbing her thumb lightly over his malformed cheek.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle. "I'm not insecure; I'm just aware of the fact that you are so much more than I deserve and I'm sure you know it too."

Christine was about to tease him about how she's had other suitors, but the taunt died on her tongue as soon as she thought of Raoul and his parting words.

Erik's brow furrowed as he saw how the mirthful sparkle faded from her eyes and the cloud of worry darkened her face. "You know you can tell me anything that's bothering you."

She nodded, still hesitant. She uttered a word; her terrible answer: "Raoul." The name, almost forgotten but forever present in the deepest recesses of his mind. It sent a flame of burning anger and blinding possessiveness over his entire being.

"What about the boy?" His voice was calm. A mask.

She looked at him, her face open. "He came to my dressing room."

He stiffened, and now her arms were around his immobile body, comforting him with her warm embrace, caressing his cheek. "You know that I love you." She breathed. Her pleading eyes begged him to believe her. And it was impossible not to, not when they shone with sincerity as bright as the stars.

When his motionless form flawed, it was almost inhuman in its fluidity. He crushed her to him and she welcomed it, wanting nothing but for him to hold her close and tell her that he believed her. "Yes, I know it." His fingers twisted into her curls. "I know that the boy has no hold on you now, that not even a sliver of your heart belongs to him." He was convincing his own heart that Christine wouldn't forget about him, this decaying old corpse, at the sight of the boy's handsome face.

She kissed the base of his throat; an intimate gesture. "I'm yours, Erik; yours and no one else's." Every cadence, every syllable that fell from her lips, reminded him that she was his – her voice alone was proof of that.

He relaxed, his arms falling to frame her body. "This was the night of the premier?" When he finally spoke, he sounded wearied.

Christine nodded, her curls brushing his chest and chin. "And he came to find me again today. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you earlier." She added in remorse.

"Why didn't you?" He tried to hide how hurt he felt by her concealment. But the raw emotion bled through his attempt at nonchalance. The sadness in his voice gripped Christine's heart tightly in a vice she recognized as guilt.

"I thought..." She tucked a loosened strand of hair behind her ear. "I thought that if his visit were a one-time occurrence, I could pretend that it didn't happen. That he hadn't barged into our lives again. And I suppose that I was a foolish child to think that I'm strong enough to handle the matter myself!" She scoffed at her own actions. "It was stupid and immature to want to prove myself like that."

"Christine!" Erik admonished. "Did you honestly think that you are weak?" He framed her face with his large palms and artistically long fingers. She blinked in surprise at the sudden change in his attitude. "Do you think that a weak woman could make the same choices you made? You had the courage to leave the promise of a safe and proficient life, for the sake of love. You have the strength to defy the rules set by our society. You dared to look beyond the surface and find goodness in me." Erik's eyes burned with the golden fire of a heavenly being. "Christine, you are anything but weak. And you have no one to prove it to."

Christine gave Erik a watery smile, not trusting herself to speak, for fear of being betrayed by her tears.

"I can't believe you think of yourself like that." Erik murmured, cradling her face in his hands. "And I was supposed to be the one with self-esteem issues."

"I'm more insecure than you might think." Christine gave a low chuckle. She then fell silent as Erik released her. Silently, the couple sat on the grass and looked over the pond, which shimmered with reflected starlight. A breeze danced across it's surface, stirring the colours so that they flowed and swirled like a fantasy sky on a canvas.

"Ironic, isn't it," Erik said. "That it should be /Hannibal/ that sets everything in motion once again."

She sighed; a mournful sound. "That was the night everything went wrong, wasn't it?" She snuck a glance at Erik. "You showed me that you're not an angel; and as luck would have it I met Raoul again on that night."

"That boy!" Erik's hands curled unconsciously into fists. "If he hadn't come along and charmed to with his good looks, everything would have been perfect. I wouldn't have done what I did – scared you away into his arms; forced you to make that impossible choice…" He trailed off, anguish and remorse painfully clear in his expression.

"It worked out in the end, though." Christine squeezed his hand. "I realized – thankfully before I married – that I love you."

"But now it's coming back to haunt us. Raoul won't be satisfied with any explanation you give him of your sudden disappearance." Erik sighed in remorse. "It was my fault; if I hadn't rushed you into a position where you would accept his proposal, maybe you would have loved me first."

"Yes, Erik, my childish fantasies of Prince Charming sweeping me off my feet were all your fault." Christine said sarcastically. "Stop blaming yourself for what happened then! If anything it was my fault; my fault for not realizing my own feelings; my fault for being so conflicted between you and Raoul." She exclaimed. "But anyway," She said in seriousness. "We should not dwell on the past."

"Oh yes – the problem now is Raoul."

"What should I do about it?" She looked at Erik with wide, frightened eyes. She felt like a child again, having the luxury of the inexperience of youth to ask her mentor and Angel for help.

She looked so vulnerable. Erik was reminded of how young Christine really was, despite of how mature she was. At only nineteen she was still a child in many ways. "Try to avoid him." Erik suggested. "I'll come with you to the theatre tomorrow night and if he does come to your dressing room I'll show him that you are mine." His hand tightened around her wrist possessively. He drew her towards him and kissed her possessively.

She angled her head to kiss him more deeply. One of his hands were tangled into her curls behind her head. The other cupped her jaw to secure her lips against his. Her own hands were moving of their own accord to grasp the front of his poet's shirt. Her hands pressed against his chest, trailing over every prominent rib. And then they were tugging the shirt clumsily over his head. His fingers moved to her spine and unlaced her dress with nimble ease. The blue dress was slipped off her shoulders. She lifted her arms to let it fall to her feet. All that mattered was Erik, worshipping her with his mouth, kissing her like there was no tomorrow.

Her bare shoulders and chemise were drenched in a sudden downpour. A rumble of thunder rang, the ominous harbinger to the coming storm. Christine made a sound halfway between a shriek and a giggle. Erik, too, was laughing as he became soaked. Christine threw her arms around Erik's neck and kissed him. As he was a great deal taller than her, he lifted her off the ground to lengthen their kiss.

As he pulled back to gaze into her face, his eyes were filled with adoration. "You are mad, my angel." He breathed before taking her mouth with his own once again. There was something sensual and thrilling about kissing in the rain. He tasted the rain on his tongue, mingling with the sweet floral flavor that was purely Christine. Her eyes were bright as she pulled back.

"We should return." Erik rested her on the ground lightly. "I don't want you catching a cold." Despite her reluctance to end the moment, Christine knew that Erik was right. So she quickly slipped back into the bodice of her dress. Erik pulled his shirt over his head. The thin white fabric had become translucent as it wetted and it clung to Erik's gaunt frame.

They mounted their horses and raced back to the house. Lightning would momentarily wash their surroundings in a flash of harsh light. Claps of thunder were terrifyingly loud and close. Above their heads, storm clouds rolled ominously.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, I hope you enjoyed the fluff as much as I did.

Preview for a review :D


	22. Chapter 21: Second Thoughts

******Disclaimer: **Phantom belongs to Leroux and Kay and ALW. I simply borrow the characters and have fun with them.

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**Chapter 21: Second Thoughts**

Erik was soaking wet as he held open the door for an equally drenched Christine. Being caught out in the rain – thunderstorm was a more accurate description – on their ride had chilled them both to the core. Ever the gentleman, at least where Christine was concerned, Erik offered for her to bathe first. She, however, insisted that they bathed together – "you were caught in that rain too, I'm not having my husband freeze to death!" She was immensely grateful to Erik for fashioning a system where hot water was available at the twist of a tap; it made urgently demanded hot baths very convenient.

Dry and warm, Madame Destler emerged from the bathroom in a white dressing robe. She sat down in front of her vanity and drew a brush through her tangling curls. The moisture made her damp hair darker and curlier than usual. She studied the face gazing back at her in the mirror. She had lost some of that child-like innocence. Her cheeks, tinted slightly pink from warmth, had slimmed. Only a few remaining traces of baby fat rounded her cheeks. Her blue-grey eyes spoke of vulnerability, yet also confidence. There was no longer a wide-eyed, naïve girl looking back at her; instead there was a beautiful woman with a steady gaze.

"You know, it's considered narcissistic to study one's own reflection so intently." Erik's velvety voice startled her. "But I think that in your case it is deemed as self-awareness rather than narcissism, as you are indeed the loveliest creature I have ever seen." He came up behind her and tucked a curl behind her ear.

"You and your sweet words, Erik." Christine hid her smile. Her heart fluttered at his generous praise.

"They are all true." He promised with a quick kiss to her temple. Christine brought a hand to her mouth to cover her yawn, and he chuckled. "Go to bed and rest. I wouldn't want you to catch a cold, being out in the rain."

"I'm not a fragile doll, Erik." Christine rolled her eyes. "And besides," She added coyly, grasping the front of his shirt to pull him closer. Her lips were only a breath away from his, "I think we should continue what we started earlier, don't you think so?" She pressed a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth. Before she had pulled away, Erik was kissing her long and hard, slipping his hands under her robe to pull it off.

* * *

Christine woke in an empty bed. It wasn't unusual for Erik to wake before her. She blinked lazily, clearing the haze of sleep from her eyes. Getting up from the warm bed, she wrapped her bare body in the robe from the night before, which was discarded on the ground. The room was still draped with shadows; the curtains were thick enough to make their bedroom a domain of night.

There was a note on her dresser, signed in Erik's angular penmanship.

_My dearest,_

_I regret to leave you before you wake, but I cannot bear to disturb the look of tranquility upon your sleeping face. I must to go into to meet with a client for some discussion over a new project. After that I am visiting a construction site._

_I expect to return in the afternoon, possibly with Flavio and Edward. That man has been pestering me about this for a while. Apparently social visits are essential to maintaining an amiable relationship. So unless he should be unavailable (with luck!), Flavio and Edward will be here, on what that blasted man deems a "social visit"._

_I love you._

_Erik_

Albeit a little dispirited at her husband's absence, Christine was determined to be productive. She busied herself for the majority of the morning with properly cleaning the house. Since moving in three months ago, they had not given the house a thorough cleaning. Erik had spent the majority of his life living in less that savory conditions, and was unperturbed by the lived-in messiness of the house. Christine's quarters in the opera house, where she lived for the last decade of her life, were not exactly immaculate, so she had not minded the disorderly house either. But their mess had accumulated to the point where she could not tolerate it any longer. She thought that cleaning would occupy her from thinking about her problems with Raoul, but unfortunately, the chore was purely physical, leaving her mind vacant and her thoughts to wander unbidden.

_Raoul… _

She remembered their first kiss – _her_ first kiss, on the rooftop of the Opera Garnier. That was the night when her fear of Erik was at its height. She was terrified of his rage, frightened of his face, horrified of the murder by his hands. It was too much for an eighteen-year-old girl to accept that her beloved, _reverenced_ angel was in fact a demon. She was scared of him. And even more so, she was scared of what she felt for him and all that that entailed. She was confused about her feelings towards him, and so she cowered, like the weak child she was, into the arms of the knight in shining armour.

Handsome, gentle, and charming, Raoul was Erik's opposite in every way. There was no mysterious mask, no cloak of darkness, no unpredictable temper. But neither did he have the strangely enchanting chords of Erik's song, nor his hypnotizing voice, nor his fervour for music. Raoul was sweet and gentle, yes; but with his safety was the lack of passion that characterized Erik.

Christine recalled her brief engagement to Raoul. He had wanted to show the world that she was his; he wanted his ring on her finger, his brand to bind her to him. Christine denied their engagement, and they had argued over that time after time. Their arguments always ended the same way – they avoided each other for several days, and afterwards pretended that nothing was wrong.

Christine didn't know the reason she refused to make public her engagement. Back then, she told herself – and her fiancé – that it would infuriate Erik and bring upon his wrath on the both of them. But it was more than that. She didn't _want_ to acknowledge Raoul. Some where in the deepest abyss of her heart, in the place she hid from the world and even herself, she loved Erik. Perhaps she wasn't _in_ love; it was more of the venerable love a student had for her mentor, the platonic love a child had for a friend, the grateful love a lost girl had for her comforter and savior.

What happened, though, under a moonless sky in Paris, when that girl grew into a young woman and the platonic feelings into romantic ones? Where did her love for Raoul go then? Did it evaporate like mist under the sun, like a prop under a magician's hand? Or was it like a relic, buried in the past, waiting for her to unearth it? She wanted to shy away from the thought, to leave the earth unturned and her own feelings undiscovered.

But she could not. She needed to be certain of her own feelings. She forced herself to face the truth. As she scrubbed at the stains on her library table, she was digging into turning over the soil of her heart, uncovering her own well-hidden secrets. Was she still in love with Raoul?

Their first kiss. The safety of his arms. The promises he made. The sweet nothings he whispered in her ear. His boyish playfulness. His kindness. Every time he took her hand. Every kiss. Every embrace. The memories replayed themselves over and over in her mind.

And then, slowly, Erik's face – scarred, horrible, and beloved – made its way to the front of her mind. With the sight, all her doubt scattered. _This_ was the man she loved. _This_ was the man she would die for without a moment's hesitation. _This_ was the man she wanted to share each night and each morning with. _This _was the man she wanted to lie by her side and reach for her and wake her with kisses. _This _was the man she had connected with over their mutual love of music.

She loved him, not because of a handsome face or flowing riches, but simply because he understood and accepted. He shared her love for music and gave her the voice of an angel. He allowed her career to flourish. He never attempted to bind her as his subordinate, even when it was in his right as a husband to do so. He respected her and accepted her and loved her. That was all she could ask of anyone.

Before making the decision to be with Erik, she had battled with herself for a long time. All those sleepless nights at the de Chagny mansion, she lay awake wondering whether Raoul and his aristocratic lifestyle was the right choice for her. That was how she had made the decision to find Erik. She thought she needed to say goodbye to him, to find closure from her previous life. Instead, it made her realize that when it came to choosing between the two men, it was Erik that she could not bear to leave behind.

Presently, the realization left Christine dumbstruck for several moments. She murmured to herself: "I have been blind."

Satisfied with her achievements, Christine decided that she had done enough housework for a day. She had just bathed and emerged from the bathroom refreshed, when she heard Erik's return. With potent newlywed glee, she all but skipped down the hall. Flavio and Edward were indeed with Erik. The Italian was complaining most ardently over some of his patients. Erik was nodding with what Christine detected as skillfully concealed annoyance. He was obviously patronizing Flavio, for the sake of their "amiable relationship" if nothing else.

Edward, on the other hand, showed no signs of impatience at his master's complaints. Submissive as ever, he appeared deaf to Flavio's grumbling. He was now fifteen and though not as burly as some of his peers, there was no doubt that he was physically fit. A recent growth spurt had transformed his body from one of a boy into one of a young man.

Although he was physically much more capable than his master, it was obvious that Flavio had a hold over the boy. Edward was completely submissive to his master's demands, some of which were unnecessarily harsh. He was Flavio's apprentice, but at times he was treated more like a servant. There was none of the mutual respect or fondness that formed naturally over an apprenticeship.

Presently, Erik glimpsed Christine standing on the staircase. Her petite white hand was rested on the dark wood banister. Meeting his gaze, she smiled brilliantly and rushed down the remainder of the steps. Both herself and Erik were immensely private people, especially when it came to their relationship, but she could not resist pecking his lips softly as he drew her into his arms, and Erik could not stem the murmur of "my darling" as he kissed her.

As he pulled back from the fleeting kiss, he noticed that Flavio's expression held something akin to disdain. He had known that, to a certain extent, Flavio did not approve of his marriage to Christine. Perhaps it wasn't Christine specifically, but the idea of marriage vexed Flavio.

"Good afternoon," Christine greeted Flavio and Edward politely. She was perfectly civil and sociable in the company of others. Erik had realized, in the six months since that night when Christine revealed her love for him, that she wore a mask that was as impeccable as his. Perhaps it was unknowingly that she donned such a facade, but in the presence of company, she was always courteous and diplomatic. Only when she was alone with Erik, or a handful of close friends, that she lifted the mask to show her true feelings – her playfulness, her opinions, her weaknesses.

Flavio directed a curt nod at Christine before engaging Erik in yet another conversation. Like he so often did, he picked a topic that excluded Christine from their conversation. A little irked by his poorly veiled rudeness, Christine beckoned for Edward to follow her into the library.

"There's a book I that think you'd like." Christine wandered down the shelves searching for a Dickens novel. During the times he and Flavio visited, Edward spent most, if not all, of his time in either the library or the stables. As October set in, and with it the prelude to winter's cold weather, Edward and Christine spent increasingly more time in the warmth of the library. Edward often stuck his nose in a book and read until he had to leave.

Today, Edward seemed uncomfortable even in the privacy of the library. Christine considered questioning him about what was on his mind, but decided that it was best to let him tell her in his own time. She passed a relatively new copy of _Great Expectations_ to Edward and he sank gratefully into Pip's tale. Christine herself flipped open the book she was currently reading.

It was only an hour later when Flavio called Edward to leave. Immediately, the boy handed the book back to Christine, still enshrouded in the shadow of a dark cloud. She hated that Edward, whom she thought of as a brother, seemed to be so troubled. So, she couldn't help asking: "What is wrong, Edward?"

"You really do trust Flavio, don't you?" His question was rhetorical, and it put Christine on her guard straight away – something she never had to do around Edward. She hadn't realized that he possessed such intense wariness towards his mentor.

"What do you mean?"

"You _trust _him." Edward crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You let him into your home." He spread his arms out to emphasize the fact. "You let him treat your illnesses. You ask for his opinion as though he is a _friend_." That last word was filled with contempt and sarcasm.

Christine pondered for a moment, trying to decipher the meaning behind Edward's words. What would he mean? Why was it so hard to fathom that she trusted Flavio? Even more importantly, what reason did Edward have for _not _trusting that man who had taken him in and taught him? "Yes." She said finally. "I trust him. And I intend to continue, until I see reason to stop doing so."

"Why?" Indignation and disbelief burned in Edward's eyes.

"Why not?" Christine returned, equally incredulous. "He doesn't judge Erik for what he looks like; he has seen Erik's face and not turned away in fear. That alone is sufficient reason for me to give him trust and respect."

Edward's expression was torn. Flavio was his mentor and master. Flavio had taught him and saved him from the life of an urchin. But at the same time he knew that what Flavio was doing was wrong. Christine and Erik would suffer from the consequences. Having an intimate knowledge of Flavio's nature, Edward couldn't escape the bereavement of his conscience. "He doesn't love, Christine." He hissed. "He has banned love; banned affection; banned attachment. What he _does_ feel is hate. What he seeks is revenge." His wide eyes burned with desperation. "How much do you think you can trust a man like that?"

"He's Erik's friend… Erik knew him from twenty years ago..." Christine mumbled pathetically. What Edward was implying was terrifying: that they could not trust Flavio; that he was planning something behind their backs.

"People change; you of all people must know that." Edward said, more gently now." Flavio is not the simple-minded boy from twenty years ago. Simply because he doesn't judge Erik doesn't mean that he is harmless." Hastily, the youth turned to exit. He had spoken too much – too much!

With that he left, leaving a confused Christine in his wake to wonder over his ominous yet cryptic warning.

* * *

"I am sick and tired of waiting!" Raoul slapped the table. He stood up abruptly and his chair turned over. "I want her back – you gave your word, and don't you dare cheat me out of my reward."

"Relax, de Chagny." His companion's accented voice was suave and indifferent, despite the younger man's vigorous anger. He swirled his wine around in a glass and took a sip. His lips then pulled into a cunning smirk. "You will get what you were promised. Only – do it _my way_. It takes more to undermine Destler than simply your impetuous force. After all, this isn't France, and he isn't a fugitive."

Indignation flashed across Raoul's features as he was reprimanded like an unruly boy. However, he calmed enough to ask: "Just how do you plan to save Christine from that monster, then?"

The older man gestured at Raoul's fallen chair. "Have a seat, and we will discuss our plans. I suggest that we start with blackmail."

Raoul raised a perfect, blond eyebrow. "Blackmailing is what _Erik _does; do we really want to play his own game with him?"

"Of course not." A devious smile flashed. "We'll play the game with the most inexperienced player. We'll play them with _Madame Destler_."

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**A/N: **Wow that was an extremely long chapter! Happy New Year to all my lovely readers. May 2013 be a successful year for all of you :]

Since last Tuesday was Christmas, I did not update _All I Want Is Freedom. _Instead I decided to upload a Christmas themed one-shot. Please go to read it, it's titled _**Christmas Wishes**_. It's the sequel to my other one-shot, _**Without You Things Go Hazy**_.**  
**

As for this chapter... Who is Raoul's mysterious partner? (I promise to answer that one soon, although most of you seem to have a clue) What is the meaning behind Edward's warning? Will Raoul succeed in getting back Christine, and his partner in harming Erik?

Please leave me a review!


	23. Chapter 22: The Ugly Art of Blackmail

******Disclaimer: **I have lovingly borrowed Leroux and Kay and ALW's toys, and I will lovingly return them when I'm finished with them.

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**Chapter 22: The Ugly Art of Blackmail**

Saturday nights were always the busiest at the theatre. After the opera ended, patrons would linger about the theatre, a number of them venturing backstage to shamelessly flirt with young and pretty ballerinas. The narrow hallways leading to the dressing rooms were packed with people, many of them bloated, middle-aged men and young, handsome, spoilt heirs. Some were surrounded by a group of giggling girls. Others singled out a specific individual, usually with some role of significance in the production, if not then one that was especially pretty. Many couples disappeared into the privacy of a dressing room, carrying out activities that Christine had no interest in witnessing. Such activities were commonplace in an opera house, as Christine knew from her days at the Opera Garnier, though she had never participated in them.

Naturally, the women with leading roles had the most admirers. They usually took on a single lover, often of some repute. The lead contralto was the mistress of a lord, while the Primma Ballerina's lover was the president of a large business corporation. But the Primma Donna of Her Majesty's Theatre had no inamorato. Christine Daae was married and surprisingly faithful to her mysterious husband.

As the leading lady, she was expected to stay after a performance, but she loathed to humour drunken, meaty men who would leer at her pretty features as though she was an object to be won. The manager did not appreciate her sneaking off after performances without entertaining her affluent admirers. But as far she was concerned, the only _entertainment_ she was responsible for providing was her performance onstage. She had no obligation or desire to entertain wealthy patrons any more than that. She usually sneaked out from the back door of the theatre before she could be missed.

Tonight, however, there was a more specific target she was hoping to avoid.

A single young man strode with a purposeful gait through the crowd. Unlike his equally wealthy counterparts, he was not here to court the affections of chorus girls for the sake of release. There were plenty of girls he had had that experience with, and he did not feel the urge to repeat them here. He pushed his way through the throng of sweaty bodies and, in the case of the women, bared skin. However, just like the other males in these halls, he was seeking female company. A very _specific_ female.

Raoul de Chagny rapped his knuckles on a dressing room door and pushed it open. The sudden movement at the door startled Christine momentarily. She had fans and admirers, yes, but none of them had yet had the audacity to enter her dressing room uninvited. She was not surprised that he was bold enough to do so, though, when she recognized her unwelcome visitor.

Raoul's constant nagging had reached the point of being irritating, and her patience at his childish petulance was wearing thin.

Bur Raoul spoke first. "Erik Destler."

Christine raised an eyebrow. "Brilliant, you found out the name of an uprising architect in England. You must feel so proud of yourself."

"Stop patronizing me!" Raoul barked. His muscles were taut with anger, his jaw set with frustration. "Erik Destler is the name of your husband."

"So you /finally/ realized that I'm married?" She tied her cloak around her shoulders. "Very perceptive of you." Facing the full-length mirror, she rearranged the cloak in nonchalance. The navy blue material fell around her loosely, concealing her body but highlighting her feminine form at the same time. "Perhaps then you will stop convincing me to return to France with you."

"Erik Destler," Raoul repeated, his eyes narrowing into hard blue slits. "Is the name of a man formerly known as the Phantom. He was born in a small town in northern France, near Normandy. As a child, he was the star attraction of a gypsy fair, because of his hideous face. He left them as a young man and travelled all over the world, with Death as his friend and companion. He was a magician, assassin and torturer. It is said that he had invented for the shah of Persia a notorious torture chamber built entirely out of mirrors.

"Up until a year ago, he was known as as the Opera Ghost. Haunting the Opera Garnier was only a simple trick for him. This wanted fugitive disappeared without a trace, after he kidnapped my bride the night before our wedding." Raoul met the grey eyes of her reflection in the mirror. He moved closer to her, so close that another step would have brought his chest to touch her back. "He appeared to have vanished, until I realized – he will be somewhere in the shadows behind Christine Daae's spotlight."

Christine felt her voice ready to waver and betray her anxiety. How was it possible that Raoul knew all this? He had information about Erik's past and his travels, even the gruesome deeds that he had committed. She herself didn't know about these details until a year ago. Erik had known her for close to a decade without ever speaking a word about any of this. His trust was hard to gain, and only someone who truly had his trust could boast his possession of this information. How could Raoul, his rival, a mere _boy_ who represented everything Erik despised, know so much? A thought darted through her mind, flirting with the edges of realization, taunting her by its flickering presence.

Christine sensed that she was on the verge of discovering the key to all this – Raoul's uncharacteristic behavior; his impractical hope; his strange knowledge. She wished to pursue that winking light in her mind, to find the missing, crucial piece. But in that moment, in that dressing room, with his adamant expression boring intently into her face, she didn't have the luxury of time to connect the dots. Whatever response she chose to give, she had to give it fast, or she would seem indecisive and daunted. She couldn't let Raoul see her that way.

She swallowed and continued looking in the mirror under the pretense of fixing her cloak. She was an actress. This was just another role she had to play. She tucked her curls behind her ear and turned to face Raoul. Her demeanor conveyed confidence and even haughtiness. "What do you hope to achieve by telling me all this?" To her pride, she sounded unfazed.

Raoul's mien, on the other hand, faltered for an unsteady moment. It was a brief glimpse of the old Raoul – kind and genuinely well-meaning. The moment passed after the fraction of a second as he schooled his expression into a coldly menacing one.

"Let's go out for a walk." His blue eyes, once the colour of the summer sky, were now icy as a winter evening. "Or I will tell the police everything. I trust that you will not simply stand and watch your husband get arrested…" Raoul extended his hand. "Don't worry; I'll let you go home as soon as we've had a talk." The sneer on his once-kind face did not suit him. His warm, soft features were twisted into a harsh and uncaring look. It was like looking at a stranger with a friend's face – sad and horrific.

Christine hesitated; what should she do? The time for make believe, of deceitful appearances, was at its end. She didn't trust herself to hold up this act of indifference. It was one thing to fake confidence for a moment; it was quite another to maintain it for some period of time. Raoul was right; she wouldn't risk the London – or worse, the Parisian – authorities to have any clue as to the former Phantom's whereabouts. She would protect her Angel's freedom, as he had once protected her. She childishly wished in a moment of desperation that she could consult Erik, or better yet, run into his arms and let his kisses soothe this away, as he had once soothed her nightmares with his presence and lilting voice, singing lullabies into her ear.

But there was no time to find Erik. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She was an adult and she had to make her decisions for herself now.

Christine looked Raoul in the eye with a steely gaze and said flatly. "Fine. But Raoul… I never thought that you would resort to the ugly art of blackmail."

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**A/N: **This chapter isn't the best. I apologize for the shortness, I really want to put Christine and Raoul's little... outing as its own chapter, and I didn't want to draw this one out meaninglessly. Hence, the short chapter.

Also, I want to apologize for the general lack of editing. I start school this week and I simply don't have the energy to edit the chapter, especially for one that's sort of a filler/relatively unimportant. I promise next chapter will be longer. And the one after that is going to be REALLY long and with some fluff.

I can't believe that we're nearing the end of the story! It's currently 29 chapters long, not including the prologue, so we're almost there. Thank you to everyone who's stuck around! I love you all :D

Please review!


	24. Chapter 23: Unmasked

******Disclaimer: **I will return everything to ALW/Leroux/Kay when I've had my fun.

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**Chapter 23: Unmasked**

Christine looked Raoul in the eye with a steely gaze and said flatly. "Fine. But Raoul... I never thought that you would resort to the ugly art of blackmail."

He smirked. "No one's above a little blackmailing, Christine. Not even your _dear Erik._"

Christine ignored Raoul's open palm, refusing to put her hand in his. He shrugged like it was no big deal, and led the way out of the opera house. Rain was pouring heavily, as though some mischievous deity had decided that drowning London would be an amusing pastime. The sewers could not drain the excessive downpour, turning the cobblestone streets into rivers. The thick material of Christine's skirt grew heavy as she hurried to match Raoul's pace. He was taller than she; his legs longer, and in his haste to get out of the rain he neglected her slower pace.

Raoul led her around the corner where a cab was waiting. He ducked into the shelter and watched Christine clamber on gracelessly, struggling with her rain-soaked skirt. The small space was dry, despite being a little suffocating. Raoul motioned for the cabbie to drive, and the carriage rolled through the flooded streets.

"Lovely night for a walk." Christine commented dryly, catching her breath. It appeared that she had picked up on Erik's wit; Raoul never recalled her to be quite as sarcastic. And so, unable to formulate a reply to this unfamiliar Christine, he remained silent.

when it became evident that Raoul was choosing to ignore her wry remark, Christine asked: "Where are we going?"

"Change of plans, due to the abhorrent weather." Raoul shrugged. "Perhaps you'd like to have a late supper?" This time it was Christine's turn to not respond. Raoul turned to small talk to ward off the awkward silence. "How do you stand living in London? It is always s _wet_!" He chuckled. For that brief moment, all his boyish charm and innocence reappeared. He looked no more than a boy laughing good-naturedly at a friend.

Christine joined in after a moment's hesitation. After all, she reasoned with herself, if he relaxed then perhaps he would be easier to bargain with – whatever it was that he wanted from her.

The carriage splashed through the darkened streets, lit only with gas lamps. Christine lost count of the turns they made in the unfamiliar roads. They finally stopped in front of a restaurant. It was a high-class place, but given the late hour and the heavy downpour, it was almost empty. The rain was certainly doing a good job of warning people against venturing outside. Nevertheless, Raoul requested a seat that offered privacy.

Warily, Christine sat facing Raoul. She watched him as he studied the menu. Aware that his attention was not on her, she took the moment to observe him. He was just as beautiful as she remembered. Briefly, she remembered how it felt to be kissed by those full, smooth, perfect lips. How his rounded cheek was complete under her fingers. How his blond hair always reminded her of the sun's rays. How his eyes were the same shade of blue as the sea, from which he rescued her red scarf.

In her mind she compared these features to Erik. Erik, with his gaunt features. His sunken eyes and hallowed cheeks. His twisted, thin lips. His exceptionally long, skeletal, virtuoso's fingers. His golden eyes, more feline that man. What was it that she saw in her husband? Any other woman would have chosen Raoul – beautiful and flawless – without a second's doubt.

What she loved about Erik was his mind, Christine mused. His genius, manifested in every word he said, every move he made. It was not only in his accomplishments that she could see how brilliant his mind was. It was in his endless wit; his unfaltering logic; his unending innovation. And his music. That was what Christine loved most. Music was his mother tongue, just as it was hers. They were two travelers from the same land, who found each other in a foreign city. That was the core of their mutual attraction. They were bound together by music, a language of which they were the only speakers.

"Do you know what you want?" Raoul looked up and met her vacant gaze. Christine hastily dropped her eyes to her copy of the menu and picked the first item she saw. After ordering their meals, Raoul casually leaned forward and propped up his head with an arm, the elbow rested on the table. "So," He remarked offhandedly. "The Opera Garnier hasn't been the same since you left."

"Oh?" Christine returned with indifference.

"Carlotta left. Resigned." Raoul shrugged. "She went back to Spain, rumour says that she's retired." Christine nodded mutely. Raoul continued. "There hasn't been a leading soprano since." She detected a hint of longing in his voice.

He held her gaze for a long time, long enough for her to feel uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, looking away. "Do you go to the opera often?" She asked for want of a better topic.

"Not as much as I used to. As patrons, my brother and I are present during each premier."

"And do you take Lady du Gaulle with you?" Christine broached on the subject with coolness. From under her lashes, she watched Raoul for his response. He stiffened visibly at the name of his fiancé. The carefully maintained facade of nonchalance slipped from his face. Despite his efforts to remain calm, his discomfort was evident. Now Christine was the one who was composed and in control. "Well?"

"How did you…" Raoul's eyes darted nervously around the room. "How did you know about her... and I...?"

Christine arched an eyebrow. "Despite what you may believe, I am not completely ignorant. I know that Lady Marianne du Gaulle is about to become Vicomtesse de Chagny." A chill ran up her spine as she realized that this was the title almost bestowed upon her. "Congratulations."

"I – " It was amusing, really, how much Raoul resembled a dumb goldfish when he was flustered. His mouth was agape. His silver tongue, known for its ability to charm and woo, was muted. His forehead appeared to be damp. His reaction was bordering on comical. Christine tilted her head to one side, a smirk teasing at the corner of her mouth. It was a little unerring, how much she looked like the Phantom. It wasn't her physical appearance; it was her demeanor that had changed. She was no longer the Christine Raoul recognized. She seemed to _enjoy_ watching him squirm like a trapped animal. The cruelty was foreign and, in Raoul's opinion, unbecoming for any young lady.

But nevertheless, Christine was the woman that he lost to Erik, and so he must win her back. It was the conclusion to their fairy tale. The prince would rescue the damsel in distress from the claws of a hideous monster. Their story was incomplete without the rescue. She _belonged_ to him, and Raoul wouldn't let that freak take it from him.

With all the arrogance that is bestowed upon the blue blood at birth, Raoul claimed. "If I desired another woman, my current engagement would cease to hold meaning."

"And you desire _me_." The simple statement, though true, sounded like a sin spoken on her lips. Christine watched the conflict in his expression. She could see that he wanted her; that much was obvious. But it was different from how he looked at her before. When they were engaged, he looked at her like he _loved_ her, like he would do anything to put a smile on her face. It was similar to how Erik looked at her, but with only a fraction of the intensity and fervor her husband possessed. The way he looked at her now reminded her of a hunter aiming his rifle at his prey – hungry and covetous.

Yes, he desired her. He desired to win back that which once was his. That which was rightfully his, that which he had been denied. But Raoul didn't say any of that. Instead, his face darkened considerably. He muttered: "This isn't what we have come here for."

"Finally." That triumphant smirk dominated Christine's lips. "What was your purpose in taking me here, Raoul?"

He took a deep breath. This had spun out of his control too fast. He hadn't planned on revealing his task so early in the evening. But if he postponed it any longer he feared that he would be completely loss at Christine's hands, at those unsuspiciously manipulative hands.

"We are here to talk about Erik Destler." He announced. Christine was immobile. The expression in the blue-grey seas of her eyes was unreadable. But he had her attention. "He is the Opera Ghost; we both know that. And I have proof." Raoul produced from his pocket a photograph.

The blurred image was the portrait of a man: a striking, impressive figure. Impossibly tall and lean and dressed all in black, he sported a fedora and a swirling cape. But most distinct of all was the white half-mask that concealed the right side of his face. It was the Opera Ghost. Even in a mere photograph he pulsated with power. His aura was imposing and commanding. The white mask was a symbol of secrecy and marked him as _different_ – different, and therefore dangerous.

"How did you get this?" Christine's usually clear voice was now flat and emotionless. But the underlying threat was evident. Somehow she had adopted a Phantom's personality. Like her lover, she had donned this mask for the sake of survival. The hairs at the back of Raoul's neck stood up as he saw how _intimidating_ she looked, this girl who was once sweet and naive.

"I have my resources in Paris. Turns out your Ghost has his fair share of fans – most of them nearly as delusional as he is." Raoul tried to appear as impassive as he had been earlier that night. But being inexperienced with facades, it was obvious that Christine's menacing demeanor had daunted him. "You have made it clear that you don't want to leave Erik. And I have made it clear that I am not returning to France without you.

"So I'll make your choice an easy one. If you refuse me now, I will hand this photograph over to the police, along with the testimony of several cast members of the Opera Garnier, who have caught a glimpse of the Phantom. To stop me from handing over this evidence, you simply have to bid _au revoir_ to your Ghost, come home to Paris with me, and I will leave the matter be."

Indignation was set aflame in Christine's eyes. How could Raoul believe that she was still that meek, submissive girl he was engaged to? "You honestly expect me to just turn my back on the man I love – who, by the way, happens to be my husband – and leave England with you? Don't you realize that he will hunt you down until he has me again?"

"He won't be following us." Raoul said with smug satisfaction. "You will return to him tonight and tell him that you want to leave with me. If he does love you as you claim," His eyes flashed, daring her to contradict him. "He will let you leave whenever you want, even if it _breaks his heart_." He sneered the last words.

She snatched the photograph from Raoul's unprepared hands. "There is nothing –" She paused and seared Raoul with her smoldering gaze. "_Nothing_, that an old photograph can prove." With a fierceness that he never knew existed, she tore the faded image into pieces and stood abruptly, prepared to march away from him.

A look of cold fury twisted Raoul's features. "I have more information, you know. More proof. Enough to charge your dear Erik with enough crimes to keep him imprisoned for ten lifetimes. Enough knowledge about his bloodstained past to even make _you_ run from him in horror. What you knew in Paris is nothing compared to all that he has done."

"I don't see how you could know things like that." Standing up, she towered over him. Her jaw was firmly set with vexation.

"Of course I could." He boasted in boyish competitiveness. "I have the source of information. I have _Flavio Morino_."

Christine could not hold in the startled gasp. As her mask of confidence tumbled from her face, she turned and ran out into the pouring rain.

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**A/N: **Dun dun duuuun! Raoul's partner is revealed! I can't say that many of you are surprised, judging by the reviews I've been getting. What's going to happen when Erik knows this?

Review = preview


	25. Chapter 24: Breaking Trust

******Disclaimer: **If I owned Phantom, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, would I?

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**Chapter 24: Breaking Trust**

Christine came home an hour before Erik expected her to return. She was supposed to be going out to dinner with several cast members. He had expected her to get home late at night, given that it took the better part of an hour to travel from London to their secluded estate. When she arrived home she went straight to Erik's study. Her cloak, still fastened around her shoulders, was soaked by the rain. Her skirt was visibly drenched, as were her boots. Raindrops rested delicately on her hair like precious diamonds.

"Erik – " He wasn't prepared for the indignant flames in her eyes. Christine's eyes were so incredibly expressive. In their depths, stormy as the night, he could pick out the emotions that blended into her irises, like picking out separate instruments when listening to music. Right now, they burned on disgust; on outrage; on betrayal; on disbelief.

If her emotion surprised him, the words she uttered next could have caused a heart attack. "It's Flavio – that's how Raoul knows so much."

In a single sweep of his arms that was so quick she could not see it, his hands were gripping her shoulders tightly. "Say it again. How do you know this?" The only times Erik had ever hurt her so was when she had removed his mask without his consent. The way he held her shoulders so roughly now was bordering on pain. A small, strangely detached part of Christine's mind idly wondered whether there would be hand-shaped bruises on her pale shoulders tomorrow. When she didn't answer, Erik shook her. "_Tell me_!"

She closed her eyes to escape from the desperate inferno of rage in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, she reopened her eyes, looked into his, and tremulously explained the events of the night. At the end, she concluded. "... and Raoul let slip that he knows so much about us – about you – because Flavio told him."

"That traitorous, lying, two-faced snake." Erik hissed. He pushed her away from him and backed away towards his desk. He took hold of the closest thing – which happened to be an exquisitely crafted ornament colored glass on his desk – and hurled it. It shattered against the wall, where it exploded and rained down in a shower of orange and yellow shards. He snarled in rage – a primitive, bestial sound. He shoved everything on his desk to the ground. His papers scattered into disarray. Several ink wells tipped over. Droplets of black ink sprayed the mahogany desk. In this frenzied rage, Erik was more like a wild animal than a man.

Christine retreated quickly out of his study and flattened herself to the wall next to the door. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She was no longer the level-headed young woman she had grown into. It was as though she had been thrown back in time, turning back into the wide-eyed girl she was a year ago, scared senseless by Erik's rage. Her heart pounded madly in her chest. This side of Erik was frightening, to say the least. She was once again reminded that however tamed Erik seemed, there were parts of him that was feral, governed by animal instinct rather than human rules. Yes, she loved him for everything, especially for the freedom from societal boundaries that he gave her. But that didn't mean that she wasn't terribly afraid of what it entails.

She sunk to the ground. Trembling, she wrapped her arms around her legs and curled up, wishing that she could disappear. She shut her eyes as though it would stop the terrible scene from happening. Through the closed door, she could hear Erik's animalistic anger, manifested through sounds of breaking and shattering and tearing. He was destroying everything within his reach. Erik was not a man who had confidence in others. Only a very selected few had his trust, and even then, it was hard earned. Flavio was a man whom Erik genuinely believed in. The betrayal of that trust, in such an absolute way, further ruined what remained of Erik's faith in humankind.

The red haze of anger faded from Erik's eyes. The bloodlust waned, the red blur gradually disappearing, like the final rays of a dying sunset, like blood-stained hands turning clean under a fresh stream of water. He sank to his knees with a choked sob. The betrayal was physically painful. He had trusted Flavio; truly trusted him enough to let him into his life. As a confidante. As a _friend_. Erik had given that man access to his thoughts, knowledge of his secrets, insights to his mind. For a man as private as Erik, only a selected few were allowed within his carefully guarded fortress, to witness his genius and share in his innovations. That trust had been broken. Snapped. Severed. It was _unforgivable_.

It could not have been more than ten or fifteen minutes, but for all Christine was aware of, a lifetime had passed. Erik found her huddled outside his study, curled up like a frightened and wounded animal. Christine looked up, her grey eyes uncertain and scared. His heart clenched in guilt. He hadn't seen her look so desperate since the time she pulled off his mask and he had raged at her. He thought that he had become a better man, a man more deserving of this brilliant woman. It was evident that he had not. He had succumbed to his anger once again. After such a long period of control, he thought he had mastered his animalistic impulses. But he had just proven that he still had no control over the beast within him. He had been the cause of Christine's fear once again.

He crouched down to her level. Tentatively, he reached out as though to cup her cheek. He hesitated just before he made contact, worried that she would shrink back in horror at his touch. Christine, however, leaned her cheek into his palm. She closed her eyes and put her own petite palm over his calloused hand, clutching onto it dearly. He marveled at the way she was so completely unguarded with him. He had scared her, and only moments later she was seeking comfort in the feeling of his sinful hand against her pristine cheek.

"I'm sorry." Erik murmured. His voice was husky, hoarse from shouting. Christine opened her eyes and looked at him with immeasurable softness in her blue-grey eyes. Her arms twined around his neck and pulled herself towards him. Her slender body nestled against his angular one, filling in all the spaces between them. Erik's arm wound around her back of its own accord. He held almost numbly. His long-fingered, skeletal hand cupped the back of her dainty shoulder. The faint smell of roses lingered on her soft skin. He buried his face in the thick, lustrous mass of chestnut and mahogany waves. In that instant, with her petite body cradled in his arms as though she were still a child, she looked so young and innocent and vulnerable.

"Are you alright?" Christine murmured against his shoulder. His scent was comforting and familiar. She just wanted to comfort him, and herself, by holding him close. She wanted to protect him against all that the world would throw at him, by shielding him within her warm embrace.

"I'm sorry." He repeated in the same numb tone. It was all that he could bring himself to say. Her concern made him feel all the more wretched. He had scared her, turned into the monster of her nightmares once again. He should be on his knees, apologizing for his primitive behaviour. But instead, she was inquiring after his wellbeing out of genuine concern. It made him remember how utterly terrible and undeserving he was.

She looked up at him. "That in there," She motioned towards the study. "Was the Phantom, with all his legendary power and temper. This, right now," She cupped his face in her hands. He felt so soft, so _real_, beneath her palms. "This is my husband. This is Erik."

"How is it that you can love me?" He whispered brokenly. Despite the words, he drew her small body closer to his own, as though he feared she would regain her senses and step away from him.

She attempted a rueful smile. "I thought we were over this part of our relationship. Now answer me – are you alright?" Her brows were drawn up towards the crease of concern in the center of her forehead. Worry swirled in the cloudy skies of her eyes.

"I don't know who I can trust anymore." He admitted. He sounded like a terrified little boy, daunted by his loneliness in the face of the enormity of the world.

She fixed him with a vulnerable and sincere gaze. "You can trust me." She said softly, with infinite conviction in her gorgeous voice.

"I know," Erik whispered, shame filling his features. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I'm sorry for being so... so _volatile _at times. I'm sorry for being so much less than you deserve."

Christine quieted him with a finger on his lips. "I chose _you_, didn't I? That means that I love and accept _all _of you." She knew that although Erik had come to terms with her love, his insecurities ran much deeper. They were deeply embedded wounds that could never completely heal. All she could do was soothe away the pain and accept the scars as part of him.

"What do you think Flavio wants with Raoul?" She pondered quietly. Although the matter of Flavio's betrayal was painful, it was necessary to deal with it.

She felt Erik's shrug. "I don't know. I need to think... to find out what Flavio wants. Why he would need Raoul for his plans." Erik stood, helping Christine to her feet at the same time. "It is probable that Raoul would run back to Flavio and tell him how he blurted out their secret like the dim-witted fop that he is."

"I don't think Raoul is aware of what Flavio's planning to do, at least not in the grand scheme of things." Christine said, thinking aloud. "The only thing he seems concerned about is convincing me to return to France with him – he even used blackmail; like I would be intimidated by his amateur attempt!"

Erik couldn't resist a little smirk at her indignant spark. Christine could be a passionate creature when she chose so. Erik loved her all the more for her fire. "De Chagny underestimated you. He thought that you would comply with whatever he demanded." Pausing, he pushed her hair back from her face. In the same fluid movement he stroked his fingers from her temple down to her cheek and cupped her jaw in his palm. "I'm so proud of you." He whispered fervently. "Where is the little Christine I met so long ago, who cried because she was teased by the ballet rats?"

Though her face was tear stained, her smile, albeit tiny, was satisfied and triumphant. "When I walked out of the restaurant, Raoul didn't seem to be worried that I would tell you about what had happened. He seemed to be intent on beating you – on making me leave you. He wants to win me back." She grimaced as she said the words. Once again she was treated like a possession, a mindless _thing _to be won from one man to another.

"True." Erik agreed. "Flavio hasn't told him what his ultimate goal is. But he is allowing, even _encouraging_ Raoul to win you back. Perhaps that is his reward for helping Flavio, but it seems unlikely that Flavio will give him his reward before he succeeds in his goal. Perhaps your absence is of importance in his plan." He absently twirled one of Christine's curls between his spindly fingers. "I think that I'm the one he wants to harm. You and the boy are just tools to him; he is manipulating you to make me suffer."

Something stirred in Christine's mind. _He will let you leave whenever you want, even if it breaks his heart_. Did Raoul unwittingly tell her Flavio's goal, even if he didn't know it himself? "What is it?" Erik pressed. After their years of acquaintance, friendship and now marriage, he could read Christine's emotions like a book. There was a thoughtful look upon her face, a slow light of realization in her eyes like the sunrise that lit up the grey, pre-dawn sky.

"Raoul said that it will 'break your heart' to let me go." She murmured. "What if –"

Erik interrupted her. "Flavio wants me to be hurt the way he was hurt." He beheld Christine with awe. "You are marvelous, my darling!" He exclaimed heatedly. "Flavio is incredibly bitter. He is jealous! He had turned his back on his family and the majority of his friends for Gianna's sake. When she left him, he lost everything he had. He held on to the hope that I would be his companion. That I would understand, that I would forever share his fate – a life without love. But when we met again here in London, I have found a woman who loves me despite my hideous appearance, despite the crimes I have committed, despite the blood I have spilt. My world has been completed. In his eyes, this is impossible. He had been comforted by the thought that he was not alone in this loveless existence, but I – or rather, _we _– proved him wrong. He's become resentful. He wants me to suffer for that – for abandoning him!"

Chills ran down Christine's spine. She froze to the spot. "Oh." She whispered numbly. This was because of her? Flavio harbored that sadistic desire to execute revenge on Erik, all because he found love? All because she loved him? "_Oh_." The world spun around her. The lights seemed to swirl. The images whirled, unfocused. Her head reeled and subconsciously, with a curious calmness, she realized: _I'm about to pass out._

She had barely started falling when Erik lifted her into his arms in one swift movement. "Christine." His voice was distant. His face loomed in front of her. Worry was drawn over his gaunt features. "_Christine_!" The blood had drained from her face. Her lips were grey. Her eyes were cloudy and unfocused. In a blur of corridors and stairs, Erik brought her to their bedroom and set her on the bed.

Her vision cleared after a moment. The room stopped swimming about. Her eyes focused on Erik's agitated face. "I'm fine." She mumbled. She was still pale, though thankfully not grey anymore. Erik still hovered next to her, concern radiating from him. "I'm fine." She repeated, squeezing his hand weakly. In reply, Erik touched his fingers to her cheek and eventually cupped it, as though to convince himself that she was physically here, that she had not become some ghostly form. The gentleness with which he touched her, coupled with the look of utter anxiety in his eyes, made her feel like the most fragile and precious being in the world.

"It must be all the stress from tonight." Erik murmured. His eyes were like pools of brilliant molten gold, each so sharp and defined with individual flecks of lighter amber in them. "You should take a bath and then rest – I don't want to risk you falling ill."

"I feel fine." Christine insisted, taking his hand in hers. At Erik's disbelieving look, she sighed and said. "Alright, I will bath in a moment."

Erik nodded and moved to the door. He returned a few minutes later, a cup of warm tea in his hands. "I am running the bath." He said, passing the tea to Christine, who murmured her thanks. She took a tentative sip at the scorching liquid. Its sharp taste focused her senses, cleared her head a little.

"Well." She quipped. "I suppose we know why Raoul has been trying to take me back to France. Flavio wants you to loose me, the same way that he lost Gianna – to someone young and rich and handsome, leaving you with your life in shambles." That statement was too close to what had almost happened back in Paris last year. She looked at Erik, and could read in his eyes that the same thought was crossing his mind. "You know that I would never leave you, right?" She pressed anxiously.

Erik nodded. "Yes. I know." He smiled ruefully. "What would make someone as wonderful as you love someone as undeserving as me?"

Christine pressed a delicate kiss upon his lips. "Everything."

"Please enlighten me as to what goes on in that brain of yours." Flavio Morino snarled. The anger radiated off him in deadly fumes. "How could you tell her that you are allied with me? We only had the advantage as long as they did not know of our alliance!"

Raoul's head was down, his gaze fixed on the hands in his lap. He was the one who usually lashed out, mostly to his servants and subordinates. It was a new and rather unpleasant experience to be on the receiving end of anger. "Look, Morino, I'm sorry." He said flatly. "I told her in a rush of impulse. I don't know what came over me."

Flavio slammed the table. "_I do_! It was immature competitiveness! You simply want to best Erik, and you blurted out our secret like a thoughtless fool. This is more than a competition between you two. It is more than a matter of your pride. It is _vengeance_! And thanks to you, you idiotic boy, we have lost our greatest advantage. And there's more that you have cost us. Your job was to make Christine agree to our demands. Then, you were supposed to take her to her to her house. She would tell Erik that she doesn't love him any longer. And then you can leave with her! How hard is it to blackmail her into leaving Erik? You are utterly useless!"

"I apologized." Raoul snapped. "What more do you want me to do?" His hands clenched and unclenched under the table. He was getting close to losing his temper.

Flavio ignored him. He began pacing the length of his study. "Perhaps I had underestimated Christine." He said, his temper disappearing. All of a sudden he appeared studious and unimpassioned. "She is, after all, adept in manipulation. Blackmailing and threatening might not unnerve her. Perhaps..." His eyes lit up in a cold, devious light. "She needs a little persuasion."

As the two men began plotting, a pair of narrowed hazel eyes observed from the shadows.

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**A/N:** At this point, everything has been revealed... but a new plot is being hatched by Flavio and Raoul. I can't believe that we're only five chapters away from the end!

This chapter's longer than usual, to compensate for the short chapter last time. And I hope you liked the fluff!

As usual, I will update the story next Tuesday.

Please review, you may get a preview of the next chapter :D


	26. Chapter 25: Losing Control

**Disclaimer: **The only things I own are Edward, Tempest, and (unfortunately) Flavio.

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**Chapter 25: Losing Control**

A young man rammed his fists against a heavy mahogany door. His hair was plastered to his scalp by the heavy downpour. In the November air it could very well be ice that poured onto him. The frantic pounding on the front door brought Erik to open it. Edward burst into the Destlers' front hall. Flicking water out of his eyes with impatience, he said shortly: "I know what Flavio is planning."

"Come; tell us in the library." Erik gave an appreciative nod and answered in the same tone as Edward.

Christine was lounging in the library when, to her intense surprise, Edward entered, resembling a drowned cat. For a moment he reminded Christine of Tempest when they first found him. But Tempest was no longer the tiny kitten they had rescued all those months ago. He was now almost full grown, his fur sleek and shiny. He was currently curled up on an armchair, yellow eyes narrowed to a strip of amber, from which he stared at the newcomer.

Neither was Edward the same boy she first met all those months ago. He had turned fifteen last month; he had shot up in a matter of weeks and was now taller than Christine and even Flavio. He had grown more confident and less introverted. Currently dampened, his nut-brown hair had turned a shade of brown almost as deep as Christine's. He looked at Erik in the eye. "I've eavesdropped on Flavio and Raoul de Chagny."

Erik gestured to a chair while taking a seat himself next to Christine. "Sit. And tell us what happened."

Edward nodded and occupied an armchair. He turned an unblinking gaze to Erik. The older man leaned forward expectantly. "Flavio's ultimate goal is for Christine to abandon you. De Chagny will take her to a hotel room and force himself upon her." Immediately Erik wrapped an arm around Christine's shoulders protectively. Edward continued: "He would then deliver to you evidence of that, leading you to believe that Christine has been unfaithful. He will then take her away from England, into elsewhere in Europe. I'm not entirely sure where, but I know that it won't be France. It's somewhere where his family has assets and connections." Edward's tone turned regretful. "Flavio will have me arrange their passage out of England, in an untraceable and anonymous route."

"This is Flavio's brilliant scheme?" Erik questioned. "It sounds much too simplistic for his taste."

Edward shook his head in disconfirmation. "No; this is merely what he has shared with de Chagny. There are parts of his plan which he keeps only to himself."

"Then we can deduce the secretive parts of the scheme." Erik spoke softly. A vacant look dominated his face as he thought aloud. "His goal is to render my existence as loveless as his own. After Christine leaves – and if I do believe her departure to be voluntary, as he expects – I would be desolate. He would offer his company to me, and preach his philosophy about the foolishness of love – " He shook his head as though to clear it of the notion. "No, no, no… I know about his acquaintance with Raoul, and he is aware of this fact."

Edward spoke. "Here is what he knows: you are, as you say, aware that he is supplying Raoul de Chagny with information. But you _don't_ have the details on the nature of that partnership."

"And that is how he will take advantage of me once again! I will demand from him information about where Raoul took Christine. He must expect me to be angry, and make me believe that Raoul paid, or more likely threatened him for his assistance, convince me that he is on my side, and win my trust again somehow."

"Perhaps by giving you the location of where Raoul will take me." Christine suggested. "Of course, when the time you arrive, we would have departed. Flavio could do that again and again to persuade you that he is on your side. And given the state you would be in, he can expect you to lose objectivity. You would be desperate for an ally, so you may be more willing to trust him."

"It sounds probable." Edward agreed. "Flavio is intent on persuading you that he is on your side. He wants you to believe that he is your only ally; that you have no one to trust but him."

"Flavio is out of his mind," Erik's voice was harsh with thinly veiled anger. "As if he thinks that I am _ever_ going to treat him with anything but distrust. I am no idiot; I already know of his acquaintance with Raoul, and therefore deduce that he had a hand in Raoul's successful escape with Christine. He should know me well enough to realize that I can see his part in this."

Edward shrugged. "Flavio assumes everyone is as heartless as he is. He has lost touch with human emotions, human reactions. A madman." He sighed, turning away in shame. "I'm sorry that I haven't told you earlier. I should have, as soon as Flavio contacted Raoul. I knew that they were planning something… something unpleasant against both of you. But I felt indebted to Flavio. I felt that I was betraying him by telling you."

He raised his gaze to meet Erik's and Christine's in turn. "I'm sorry." He said, the apology heartfelt in every way. "I'm telling you all I know now, because I cannot bear to have a part in the scheme. But I cannot remain silent any longer!" His young face was wrought with anguished resolution.

"We don't blame you." Christine said to Edward. "I know how hard it is to make this decision." Had she not been in the same position before? Raoul and the theatre managers had coerced her into taking part in their plan to capture Erik. She was forced to sing in _Don Juan_, to play the part of their "ace", as Raoul had called her. She had been torn between her fear or Erik and her loyalty to him. And now, wasn't Edward facing the same struggle? She understood perfectly how he loathed betraying his master, the man who had saved him and taught him. But at the same time, he knew that Flavio planned to hurt people he cared about. In the end, they both worked against their teacher. Only in Christine's case, she had been forced into it, and Edward made the choice willingly.

"You've told us what you know, and we are grateful for that." Erik added. It wasn't exactly a reprieve, but it was his forgiveness. "We should focus instead on how we should deal with Flavio's ploy."

"Yes." Christine agreed. "What should we do? Since we know what he is planning to do, we should use it to our advantage and foil his plan."

"Don't give Raoul an opportunity to be alone with you." Erik suggested. "Don't let him force you into..." His hold was becoming more possessive.

"Easier said than done." Christine reminded him ruefully. "He can find me easily enough at the theatre." Erik began to argue, but she stopped him: "You can't guard me every minute of every day, Erik. And even if you can – what then? They will simply wait for us to tire of defending and strike when our guard is down. We can't keep it up for ever, not if we want to continue our lives. We have to end this now." She knew that Erik would feel the same way. He would refuse to be hunted.

Erik looked into her blue-grey eyes, steely with determination, and murmured: "I know." His hand ghosted across her cheek. He would have lingered there for longer, but he pulled away quickly as he seemed to remember that they had an audience. Clearing his throat, he said: "We could bait him instead." He speculated. "Set up a situation that he won't be able to resist."

"Flavio would not abandon a previous plan, unless forced to in some way." Edward argued. "Despite his madness, he is still methodological."

"You're right." Erik agreed with chagrin. "We should attack the weaker member – Raoul." He spoke the name coldly. "What can you tell us about him?" He asked Edward.

Edward was hesitant. "He behaves like a spoilt child. Flavio approached him the first night after he saw Christine at the opera. He said he's your real fiancé..." He said to Christine, shooting an apologetic look at Erik. "He honestly feels that Christine rightfully belongs to him, and he is bent on besting you, Erik."

"Then let him come!" Erik's golden eyes flashed, impulsive and vehement. He was the Phantom once more: fierce and unrelenting. "I will show him who is the better man between us!"

A memory flashed through Christine's mind: Raoul suspended from a noose, fighting for his breath, while her dark angel taunted him. The similarity right now was striking. The same frenzied, murderous glint was in Erik's eye. "Don't." She breathed, firmly taking hold of Erik's hand. It frightened her, how Erik would so easily turn to violence.

"Do you doubt my ability to fight for you?" He challenged. Disbelief crept into his voice. Did Christine not want him to prove to the world that she was his?

"I would _never_ doubt you." She said truthfully, her face set. "But there are better solutions! You promised me that you won't kill." _Anymore_. The unspoken word hung between them, as loud as if she had screamed it at the top of her lungs.

Her face was imploring but intent. Erik took a deep breath and resigned. The Phantom retreated into the dormant state from which it had woken. "Then I suppose we could try breaking Raoul's reliance on Flavio. If he backs out of their plan, Flavio would be forced to formulate a new strategy."

"The most effective way is a letter from home." Christine suggested. "What about a letter from his fiancée?"

"Perhaps…" Erik's brain ticked at inhuman speeds, and Christine could almost hear it whirling as it worked, much like a piece of intricate mechanism. His golden eyes sparked with ingenuity as he spun out an idea. "A letter from his fiancee would remind him that he is already betrothed to another, and dampen his obsession with obtaining you. "

"What if she wrote to him saying that she would call off the engagement if he did not return at once?" Edward suggested.

"No." Erik protested immediately. "He does not need the temptation!"

"Raoul obeys his brother above everything else, so that may be more practical." Christine said.

"I have it!" Erik exclaimed, eyes sparkling in triumph. "We can inform Philippe de Chagny that Raoul is having second thoughts about marrying Lady du Gaulle, and has sought the company of a theatre girl in London. Knowing Philippe, he would immediately contact Raoul and demand that he return home straight away."

"Brilliant!" Edward grinned.

"But there is some risky that Philippe does not write such a letter." Christine remarked. "We could forge such a letter instead, couldn't we?"

"Yes; I can imitate his handwriting." Erik agreed. "Clever girl." He praised Christine in an undertone.

Before either Christine or Edward could reply, they were disturbed by the sound of a loud _bang!_ that was most definitely not the thunder.

Someone was in the house.

Outside, the downpour had turned into a storm. The second unexpected visitor of the night fired at the lock several times with a pistol. The lock gave way, and the man wielding the pistol kicked open the sturdy door.

He walked into the house, flanked by his companion. They were completely drenched but paid no heed to it.

"Remember, boy, we'll end this tonight." Flavio Morino growled. "Our previous plan cannot be held any longer, that damned boy will have told Erik. We'll find that little traitor and kill him. When he's out of the way, I'll get started on Erik. Your job is to contain Christine, whatever that silly girl attempts." He shot his companion a deadly look. "I trust that you have, at least, the physical strength to constrain her."

The young man with him looked vexed at the suggestion that he lacked the strength to control the lightly built woman, but he kept his mouth shut.

Flavio motioned to his companion. "They should be in the library this time of night." Raoul de Chagny nodded. He opened his jacket to reveal a pistol, which he took into his hand.

Without a single care for stealth, they moved up the stairs, following the stairs that floated out of the library.

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**A/N: **This has been an extremely tough chapter to write, I'm still not exactly happy with it. I'll edit this sometime in the future, I PROMISE.

Well guys, I'm back! My mocks are over and now I'm going back to these weekly updates. There are only four chapters left, I can't believe that we're nearly there. It's been amazing so far and thank you all for the reviews and feedback.

Review please? (You'll get a preview of the next chapter)


	27. 26: Either Way You Choose You Cannot Win

**Disclaimer: **I am nowhere near brilliant enough to own any version of Phantom other than my headcanon.

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**Chapter 26: Either Way You Choose You Cannot Win**

A series of voices, obviously male, floated up the hallways and into the library. Although she couldn't make out their words, Christine was immediately aware that the speakers were enraged. Erik tensed next to her. From the way his forehead creased forebodingly, she knew that his sharp ears picked up every single word with clarity.

Erik mentally berated himself for failing to conceal weapons in every room of the house. His Punjab lasso was in his study, his revolver in his bedroom. Back at the house by the lake, he hadn't needed to keep himself armed, as the lake and many other traps were sufficient protection. He had forgotten how vulnerable this house was. This comfortable life had made him neglect the need to defend himself.

He rose suddenly, lithe as a cat of prey. He prowled across the room to slide back the glass of the bay windows. "Edward, get out." He said brusquely. When the boy looked up at him with hesitance, he pulled him to his feet. "Now."

He sighed with exasperation as two perplexed faces looked up at him. "That down there is Flavio and Raoul. They must have abandoned their earlier plan because Edward spoke to us." He spoke as though Christine and Edward were dumb children. To him, they could very well be. How could they not grasp the situation at hand? "They're here to get you, Edward, and if you don't leave now, Flavio's not going to let you go alive. Now, Edward – out that window. Christine, you too."

"One of those two men down there wants to make you suffer and the other wants you dead." She said unblinkingly. "If you think that I'll leave you to those two lunatics down there, then you do not know me at all." Her eyes were narrowed, her face set in resolution. Erik knew that there was no use arguing with this headstrong creature.

Edward rose but he didn't make it two steps when the library door was kicked open. It banged against the wall with a loud _boom_. Flavio stormed in, followed by Raoul. The latter was armed with a pistol. Erik did not doubt that Flavio, too, had a weapon on him. "Go!" He shoved Edward towards the window. "Take a horse, _go_!"

The boy needed no more prompt. He made for the window just as Flavio whipped out a gun and fired. He missed. By the time the next shot rang again, Edward was out of the building, fleeing into the stormy night.

"Well, Erik." Flavio drawled. Christine could practically see the anger bubbling under his skin. Without taking his eyes off Flavio, Erik reached out to Christine and drew her behind him. "I do regret that it has come to this."

"It doesn't have to." Erik held Flavio in an unblinking gaze.

"Yes it does!" Flavio insisted angrily. He took a deep breath to calm himself. When he spoke again, his voice reached some degree of control. "If that two-faced, traitorous weasel hasn't told you _everything_, it would have worked out so much better."

"I fail to understand how your ingenious plan would make everything 'better'." Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Of course you don't, not yet. You've been blinded by that trivial weakness you call love!" Flavio scoffed. "I can illustrate my point, though..." He pointed the gun at Christine. "Come over here or I shoot her. I won't kill her, of course not. That would be too easy, too merciful. It would take away the point of all this. But she would be in so much pain... I _am_ a doctor, remember that, Erik? I know just where to shoot so that she bleeds very, very slowly. She won't die, not in a couple of hours. But she will lie there, in agony. And I'm sure you know first-hand how much it hurts to be shot in the kneecap, don't you?"

"Flavio!" Raoul protested. "You promised that she wouldn't be hurt!" He looked like a spoiled boy, pouting because he was deprived of a promised treat.

"Shut up, you imbecile," Flavio snapped with impatience. Raoul looked piqued at being dismissed like a misbehaving child, but he ceased protesting. "Now, Erik! I _will_ shoot her!"

An image flashed through Erik's mind: Christine crumpling to the ground as her kneecap shattered. Screaming in her shrill soprano tones. She'd always had a low tolerance for pain, and being shot in the knee was one of the most excruciating injuries a bullet could cause. Erik took slow, measured steps towards Flavio.

"Good move." Flavio commended without warmth. "Now turn around." With the same deliberate calm, Erik turned to face Christine.

"Get down on your knees." Erik lowered himself. He locked his even gaze with Christine's panicked one. She made a move towards him; whether she was aware of it or not he could not tell. Raoul gripped her upper arm, stopping her.

Erik tried to comfort her silently. _It's alright. Breathe, Christine. Keep calm. He won't shoot me._

The tension was evident in Christine's body, but at least composed herself. _Good girl_. Erik praised mentally. In spite of the situation, he was proud that Christine was holding herself together.

"See, Erik, you're smart." Flavio continued. "So why did you have to find a _woman_?!" He snarled the word like it was a curse. The hand holding the pistol shook, but he didn't take the weapon off Christine. "Why, Erik?" His angry tone was gravitating rapidly towards desperation. "You of all people... I thought that you would understand me. You would understand that women are so incredibly fickle!

"They demand everything from you. Money. Time. Attention. Pampering. Affection. All this adds up to toil. Sooner or later, you grow weary of this unending sacrifice. Sooner or later, you realize that it is a sacrifice made in vain. A waste of your energy and your emotions. She is playing with your heart, Erik, can't you see that?"

He stopped to take a few deep breaths. Erik didn't dare say anything, for fear that Flavio, in his madness, would shoot Christine. Raoul was now gripping her tightly – a little _too _tight. His hand was on her arm. The other was resting on her hip, so that his arm was laid across her back. He was physically constraining her from moving. At the same time he seemed to be staking a claim on Christine. His body language was clear enough: _this is my woman._

Flavio scoffed at Erik's irresponsiveness. "Oh, no… denying the simple truth won't do you any good. Erik, you _know_ that it is the truth, don't you? Remember when she left you?" His eyes flashed with menace. "Oh, yes, I know what happened. She was your precious protégée and you fell in love with her. I have to admit that she is beautiful, and I suppose that you've always had a weakness for beautiful _things_.

"But you see, beauty has an attraction for its own kind. Repulsive, vile, _ugly_ creatures have no place in the world where sunlight illuminates all that is good. And monsters as hideous as yourself recede to the furthest shadowed corner, using darkness as a cloak to hide from that harsh, revealing light."

Erik turned to his former friend in incredulity. Here was Flavio, who had accepted his deformity without so much as cringing, now mocking him for his ugliness. Telling him that he and Christine would never belong together, separated by the disfigurement that he had been unfairly cursed with at birth.

"Don't look at me with such surprise, Erik! Did you honestly think that because I can look at your face – your distorted, inhuman face – without flinching, it means that I don't find it ugly? I've seen more than my fair share of scars and disfigurements and birth defects. There are poor souls out there who do resemble you, whether by birth or by some accident. But yours... yours overshadows anything I've ever seen."

Erik did not bother hiding the shock and hurt that contorted his face. He had thought that this man was past judging him, but in the end, he still did. Christine yearned to kneel to the ground next to him and hold him and tell him that he was beautiful and belonged next to her in her world; in _their_ world of music, not confined to solitude and isolation. She wanted to kiss his disfigurement and reassure him about _them_. She needed to tell him that he deserved more than his dungeon of darkness and despair. But Raoul's hold on her was controlling and possessive. She could not break free without a struggle, and Flavio would have plenty of chance and reason to shoot either her or Erik.

Erik looked up at Christine's imploring eyes. All their shades were bright with pain. Pain that she felt all too acutely for him. It had taken her the better part of their life together to convince him that horrendous as his face was, it was by no means a judge of his character. Now in a single minute, Flavio had destroyed all the progress she made. Erik was back to the self-deprecating man who could not bear to lift his head to face the daylight, the one who had almost left her after their first night together because he believed himself unworthy of her. _Please, Erik, please believe me_, she pleaded silently. _You are not ugly or terrible or monstrous. You are my angel, my angel guided me to light and triumph, and sheltered me from the cruel world. Don't let him tell you any differently._

"Anyway, as I was saying," Flavio continued as though he had not just shattered Erik's ego. But there was a satisfied glint in his eye, a smug look upon his face that wasn't there before. "You do not belong in Christine's world. Remember when she left you, _abandoned you_ to your own darkness when she saw what you really are? She returned to her world of light and beauty. Betrayed her teacher for a boy with a beautiful face. Do you remember the utter agony of betrayal? Do you remember that bitter resentment? Do you remember the dreadful ache for her, for something unreachable?

"Now tell me this – how is she any different now? Has she really changed so much in the last year that she can love you even though your face looks as though it is the leftover of some mutt's dinner? No; that vain child is still in there, and she is unquestionably drawn to her own kind." Flavio forced Erik to face Raoul and Christine. "Look! See what a beautiful couple they make! A couple made in heaven..."

Erik forced himself to speak. "You think that because Gianna was fickle, every single woman is? You are a man of science; you should know that a single example is enough to disprove a theory! Christine's love for me is sufficient evidence to prove you wrong."

"That's what you think!" Flavio snarled. "When she gets bored of you, she will discard you as a child discards an old plaything! Christine – tell him that you don't love him, that you never did!" She froze, unable to make herself say it, not even at gunpoint. When she did not reply, Flavio rammed the butt of the gun against Erik's head. Erik was unable to suppress his grunt of pain. "_Say it_!"

She took a deep breath. If she said it, she would ruin Erik. Even if he knows that she didn't mean the words, hearing them from her lips would kill him. But not saying them would kill him too, only in a much more literal way.

She wet her lips and spoke. But her question was directed to Flavio. 'What happens if I say it? There won't be any point in saying it if I can tell him afterwards that I love him." _Play dumb. Keep him talking. Bid your time_. Time for what, though, she had no idea.

Flavio actually sniggered at her ignorance. "That would defeat the whole purpose of this visit!" He kicked Erik. The gesture itself was almost friendly, like a fond clap on the shoulder, but it was forceful enough to make him lurch forwards uncomfortably.

"You see, Erik? I told you how shallow-minded women are! Christine, my dear girl... and honestly you are just a girl. Nineteen years old is hardly a woman, especially compared to Erik! The ploy of marrying a man twice your age for his money is a little overused, wouldn't you agree? And his imminent death would leave you a young, wealthy widow!

"But you fell pregnant. If you produced an heir you wouldn't inherit all of Erik's fortunes. So you aborted the fetus. That was very convenient for you! A few convincing tears and you had Erik believing wholeheartedly that you miscarried. Without a child you would receive an impressive fortune, and you would be free to marry again!" Flavio laughed, a deranged, maniacal sound that sounded almost like a sob.

"You are insane!" She lost her temper at the mention of her miscarried baby. "You were there, you _knew _that it was an accident! As if I were some heartless bitch who would sacrifice her own child!"

"But you _are_ a heartless bitch." Flavio's gaze was condemning. "You won't even admit to using Erik. The least you owe him is a confession of how you feel. Let him be free of this ridiculous infatuation he has with you!"

"And what will happen then? I assume that you aren't just going to leave us be." Her expression was guarded.

Flavio laughed coldly. "You are going to leave with the Vicomte. He is young and handsome and rich. By no rule or logic would you choose Erik over that." He gestured to Raoul, with his baby blue eyes and dark blond hair and flawless complexion. The embodiment of a young woman's fantasy.

"So this is the choice? Erik's life or my freedom."

_Start a new life with me. Buy his freedom with your love. Refuse me and you send your lover to his grave. This is the choice, this is the point of no return!_

Erik's words from a year ago returned to her. By some ironic twist of fate, the same choice was presented to her once again. Only this time, it was Erik's life she was trying to save. It was his life or hers. If she had to leave with Raoul, it would be no better than death. Living a life away from Erik, a life away from music, a life of aristocracy, a life of constraint. She would suffocate and wither. Erik would berate himself over and over. He would not survive losing her again. Perhaps physically he would be fine. But his heart and soul would never be at peace.

But her freedom could only be bought by Erik's life. This was a price too high to imagine paying. Choosing her freedom over Erik's life would be just as terrible, if not even more so. She would be plagued for the rest of her life, forever going over the choice she made this night, wondering whether there was a move she could make that would have saved Erik's life. She would always blame herself for valuing her own life over Erik's. For choosing self-preservation.

_Either way you choose, you cannot win._

Christine could feel the three pairs of eyes boring into her. Waiting for her decision. She first looked at Flavio's maddened gaze. His face was alight with insanity and sadistic thrill. Then to Erik's, his desperation masterfully hidden behind an even expression. She knew that he was, for perhaps the first time in his life, at a lost for what to do. He wanted her to save herself, but he had the instincts of a survivor. He would never wish for his own death, no matter how desperate the situation. At the same time, he wanted her to live in freedom, not trapped in the confines of a Vicomtesse. He wouldn't want her to, in his own words, _lose this beautiful soul who is Christine._

And finally, she turned her gaze to Raoul. He was so close to her; she could feel his heated breath down her neck. She turned to face him. His intense, burning gaze was pressurizing. How easy it would be to make the choice and press her lips to his equally perfect ones, sacrificing herself for Erik! But somehow she could not make herself do that.

Her freedom or her lover's life. The choice had never changed. What had changed was _her_. Erik's death was unimaginable. The life of a Vicomtesse was equally painful. In a flash of spontaneity, Christine realized that there has always been only one possible decision.

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**A/N: **I have been waiting FOREVER to upload this chapter! This is what everything has been building up to! I hope you guys like it :D

We have three more chapters until the end of the story. Thank you everyone for reading this story, whether you were with me since I uploaded the first chapter, or if you're a new reader discovering this story a year later. I love every single one of you.

As always, reviewers get a preview of the next chapter :]

~letthesongtakeflight


	28. Chapter 27: Freedom

**Disclaimer: **Apart from this story, the only Phantom-related things I own are: a musical poster, a copy of Susan Kay's Phantom, a Phantom half mask, the OLC and Phantom 25 soundtracks, and the Phantom 25 DVD. That is IT.

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**Chapter 27: Freedom**

Her freedom or her lover's life. The choice had never changed. What had changed was her. Erik's death was unimaginable. The life of a Vicomtesse was equally painful. In a flash of spontaneity, Christine realized that there has always been only one possible decision.

A mass of curls flashed before Raoul's eyes. His pistol was snatched from his belt. Christine pulled the trigger once. Her eyes squeezed shut at the harsh sound. Two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Two cries of pain accompanied the shots. Two guns clattered to the wooden floor. Two heavy thuds of falling bodies. Erik and Flavio both collapsed to the floor. Christine's sharp scream rang out.

There was a blur of confusion: what had happened? She did not shoot Erik by accident, did she? If so, then what did Flavio's bullet hit? No; she had not missed her target. Flavio's unmoving form was sprawled on the ground. A deep red stain blossomed across the front of his shirt and spread like poison.

Christine pushed away Raoul's restraining hand, loosened by surprise, and ran to her husband's side. Erik was still, his eyes closed lightly. His forehead and the left side of his face were ominously splattered with blood. The sight of his drained face and the deep red blood made Christine light-headed and almost hysterical. Her stomach felt as though it turned inside out, as the thought that Erik was _dead_ crossed her mind. She knelt beside him, frantically stroking his face from hairline to chin. Her hands trembled violently as her fingers ghosted over his cheek.

Through lips that were quickly becoming paralyzed with fear, she managed to gasp: "Dear God – please don't be dead!" _Not after everything. Not when I love you so_. She anxiously shook his immobile body in hopes of arousing him.

Her shaking hand was grasped by a gentle yet steady one. Her heart dropped to her stomach and rose up to her throat in elation. "_Christine_." he whispered her name like it was his salvation. His voice, albeit raspy and rough, was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Forget the inhumanly velvety tenor tones the Angel of Music possessed; they paled in comparison to Erik's hoarse voice now, this assurance that he was alive. That he had not been snatched from her.

Christine let out a shaky breath. There was suddenly too much adrenaline in her veins and she felt unsteady from it. Erik pushed himself up on his elbows and gathered her trembling form into his arms. "It's alright, love, it's alright." he coaxed.

The relief was overwhelming. She felt a desire to laugh or cry; she did not know which was stronger. Instead, she fisted her hands in Erik's lapels, brought her face level to his, and looked him in the eye. "Don't you _dare_ die on me." She hissed fiercely.

Erik's hands, long and virtuosic, framed her face. There had never been anything more precious than that which he held in his hands. There was a glint in the grey depths of her eyes that spoke of determination and bravery, but also of desperation and worry. But most of all, there was a fierce, relentless love. "Never." he murmured in conviction.

It wasn't clear who moved first, but they collapsed into each other's embraces, clutching at the other as though their life depended on it. They savoured each other's presence, at how very _real_ the other felt within their arms. They marveled that tonight they had not been torn apart, that they had the luxury of this fierce embrace. They relished in the blood that coursed through them, in the hearts that beat on in their unfaltering rhythms, in the fragile lives they carried.

Christine's hand went to Erik's temple. "You're bleeding so much." she whispered, her eyes wide and almost fearful, as though she was afraid even now that he would slip through her fingers.

"It takes more than a mediocre gunman like Flavio to kill me." he soothed her, brushing his lips against her brow. He stood up and offered a hand to Christine to help her up. He squeezed her hand before slipping away. In even footsteps, he crossed the distance to Flavio's side.

Erik bent down to Flavio, lowering his face to the dying man's. Blood trickled from the corner of Flavio's mouth, running from a pool that had gathered in his mouth. Erik fisted his hands into the lapels of his former friend's bloodied shirt and lifted his torso into the air. Flavio groaned weakly at the agony of the violent movement. "Feel the pain, Flavio?" Erik snarled. His eyes were a golden inferno. "That's her answer for you. She chose freedom – mine, and hers. You don't know what it means to be free. You think that love is a shackle, a deprivation of freedom. You don't understand that love is a form of freedom in itself. She freed me from my self-imposed prison, and I freed her from the confines of the society.

"She does love me. She surrendered her purity. She accepted this blood, _your tainted blood_, onto her clean hands. Would she have done that if she didn't love me, if she had wanted to be with the Vicomte?" he fixed his triumphant stare upon Flavio's face. "You were wrong, Flavio. You cannot break me. You cannot break _us_."

The light was fading from Flavio's eyes, but he fixed that dying gaze upon Erik's face. "I haven't lost." he growled savagely. Blood bubbled from his lips as he spoke. His voice was little more than a whisper, and even that was obviously toiling for his quickly diminishing strength. "One day, Erik, when you are rotting in this prison you built around yourself, you will realize that I am right."

Each breath he took grew more ragged and laborious. Each inhalation more shallow and weak. Yet he fought to stay alive, to endure the torture of a bullet in his chest, so that he could bestow his dying words. "Remember then," the blood rising from his mouth was obviously choking him, causing a torment that could be spared if he refrained from speaking. "When... when you regret... the choice which yo... you made today, that –" he inhaled painfully and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. The effort of speaking was torturous. When he spoke again, his words were all but inaudible; Erik had to read his barely moving lips to understand. "That I... I had warned you... this... this is... y-your punish... ment..." his body convulsed in a series of spasms, violent despite his weakened and suffering state. He gasped, a final, violent, desperate attempt to live, and it abruptly ended.

Erik glowered into the blank, glazed eyes; eyes that were no longer the windows to the soul of a deranged man. A man who desperately searched for freedom, but had encaged himself all the more in his quest. In a resigned manner, Erik released his grasp on the corpse's shirt. The body dropped on the carpeted floor with a muted thud, heavy and lifeless. It was no longer Flavio Morino, the doctor from Venice. Like a machine that stopped running, its arteries no longer coursed with blood; its heart no longer pulsed in a steady rhythm; its brain no longer ticked with complex thoughts and ideas; its muscles no longer flexed in dexterous movements; its skin no longer felt the brutality of pain nor the tenderness of a fond caress. It was but an empty vessel. Something that was once alive and invaluable, now reduced to a lifeless, meaningless _thing_.

Erik rose and returned to where Christine stood. Her hair was in disarray. Her clothes were wrinkled. Her skin was ashen. Her eyes were hauntingly wide on her pale face. Their distinct blue-grey had never looked so watery. Erik cupped her jaw in his hand. He ran his thumb across her cheek. "It's all over." he whispered. She nodded mutely. Erik drew her into his arms. With a soft cry, she clutched him to her tightly. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a fervent kiss.

They remained like that for a moment, both of them needing the reassurance that they were alive, that they were still together. They held each other, drinking in all each other's presence, which had so very nearly been denied from them. Christine tilted her head up and sought Erik's lips with her own, moving as though they were both made of glass and the slightest force would shatter them. He obliged, kissing her with a tenderness that was more pronounced than all the passion in the world. If all their embraces, their sweet caresses, their tender looks, had failed to convince either of them that they were both alive and together, this kiss sealed their conviction that their lives were now entwined all the more, so much that they would weather any storm, together.

Raoul shifted uncomfortably at intruding on the private moment. The shuffling sound, however light, brought Erik's attention to him. The young man was standing where he had locked Christine in his grasp only moments ago, seemingly immobilized.

Erik the tender lover disappeared, replaced by the Phantom of the Opera. He regarded his former rival coldly. "Monsieur le Vicomte." He said. "Forgive me for ignoring your presence. I do not welcome intruders, you know."

Raoul stared, dumbstruck. Erik quenched the desire to strangle him in exasperation; was the fop in so much shock that the power of speech was taken from him? "I do not take kindly to men who barge in here and threaten both myself and my wife."

Raoul's eyes widened. "You're not planning to kill me, are you?" he spoke in a pathetic whimper. The naked fear in his eyes spoke that his death was a definite possibility to him.

The Phantom laughed his cold laugh, relishing in the power he held. In the end, Vicomte or not, all men were terrified of death. "No. Contrary to what you may believe, I do not wish to kill unless the situation requires it. And I hope that you have enough wits about to make sure that the situation does not require it."

Raoul swallowed. "Of course – name your price, sir."

_Materialistic!_ Erik scoffed mentally. "My 'price', as you call it, is simple. First." The notorious Phantom commanded. "Leave England. Don't breathe a word about what happened here to anyone. A single hint, spoken in sincerity or jest; in sobriety or drunkenness; if you so much as mutter about it in your sleep, you will be sure that you will pay with your life." Raoul nodded fervently. He was not in a hurry to relive the events of this night, nor was he so willing to part with the land of the living. "Second, Christine is mine. Don't ever contend for her hand again. You are about to be married to a French woman of your own class and birth – be content with that."

Raoul paused. He had seen how Christine rushed to Erik's side when she believed he was dead. He had seen the undiluted terror as she strove to rouse him. He had seen the renewed hope when she saw that he had not been killed. He had seen their kiss, the kind that could only come from the heart. She truly did love Erik, despite what lay under that mask. Raoul may not understand it, nor was he happy with losing what was once his, but he would not hold Christine against her will.

Seeing Raoul's hesitation and mistaking it to be indecision, Christine spoke softly: "The girl who loved you was Little Lotte. Not Christine. I will never be the kind of wife you deserve. I don't belong in your world, Raoul; it would crush me. I belong with Erik – a life of music and singing, which you would deny me. Go back to Paris, marry Lady du Gaulle, and love her as you once loved me. She'll be a much better Vicomtesse for the de Chagny line, and a much more fitting wife for you than I ever can."

"Christine…" he nodded, his expression was unbelievably gentle, almost like the boy Christine met by the seaside all those years ago. "I won't deny you this happiness that you have found."

Christine gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

"And finally –" Erik continued. "When you return to Paris, tell them that the Phantom is dead. I don't care how you do it – you killed him yourself; or Christine witnessed it and told you; that he never existed except in rumours; or make up some fantastical story of your own. I must be a dead man, a legend, to all of France."

Raoul nodded a third time. " I can arrange for that, my word would be taken for granted."

"That is it, then." Erik said imperiously. "Follow through with these requests, and you can walk away with your life attached to your body."

"I will, sir." Raoul visibly relaxed, relieved that he had saved his own skin from the Phantom's wrath.

And so he left into the night, leaving behind two people who have fought for and finally received their freedom.

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**A/N: **Crappy ending is crappy D:

I hope you like how that was resolved. As I mentioned in a couple of replies to the reviews of the previous chapter, the climax mirrors the Finale of Phantom, as Christine is presented with the same choice. Through the course of AIWIF, she has grown up, and her new maturity is manifested most potently in her decision to this situation.

There will be one more chapter after this, and then it's the end. I love all of you so, so much for reading this story, and following it, and leaving reviews. Especially those who have added me to their Favorite Authors or subscribed to me! Keep an eye out for anything else I'm going to post. I can guarantee a couple more Phantom one-shots (hint hint).

Anyways, please review! :]


	29. Chapter 28: Some Semblance of Normality

**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned Phantom, but I don't.

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**Chapter 28: Some Semblance of Normality**

It was midnight by the time the ordeal was finally over. Raoul rode off through the sheet of freezing rain in the direction of London. Christine stood at the window, unable to divert her gaze, until the white horse disappeared into the haze. It was as though she needed to reassure herself that the Vicomte was not going to return to the house, go back on his word and break their lives apart all over again.

Finally, she tore her eyes from the window and turned to Erik. Her gaze was heartbreakingly tender as examined his injury. She touched her fingers to the bullet wound on Erik's forehead. She felt with relief that it was not deep, drawing quite a bit of blood but posing no immediate threat.

"It's not that serious," Erik reassured her as he read the distress in her face. Of all the wounds he had gained across his life, this was one of the less dangerous ones. He intended to dress it himself; after all, there had never been anyone who cared enough to do so for him. "It is simply a graze; all the blood makes it look worse than it actually is." In response she gave him a look that was so worried and beseeching that he gave his consent for her to treat it.

Wordlessly she cleaned the blood off and dressed the wound with extreme care. Without the illusion created by the rust coloured stains, she could see that the wound itself was fairly small. Like he said, it was no more than a graze. Nevertheless, it was a wound that would have been fatal had it been but that much more to his right.

She had been ominously subdued after the ordeal. The only word that came to Erik's mind was "haunted". She looked drawn and tired. She lacked her usual spirit, in a way that was due to more than mere exhaustion or shock. As she patched up the wound, she barely exchanged any words with him, and when she did it was out of necessity – does this hurt; tell me if you are in pain; keep still. Nothing personal nor intimate. Nothing to mark what had just happened.

"I'll deal with the body now." Erik noted with a sigh, weary at the prospect of the task but knowing that it was necessary. "I'll frame it to be a common robbery, which turned into murder when the victim attempted to stop it." His voice was detached. He could not afford to be sentimental about it.

"Must you go now?" The question slipped out of Christine's mouth before she could stop it. "I'm sorry." She apologized straight away, the impersonal mask slipping back into place. "I understand that this must be taken care of as soon as possible."

"Darling, I will be back in an hour." Erik promised. He touched her cheek tenderly. He did not want to part with her either, but the pragmatist in him knew that this must be dealt with as soon as possible.

"And there's something else." Christine murmured. "I just don't want to be alone. Not after tonight..." She admitted, her arms drawing around herself. For the first time since the ordeal, she was completely open. Her vulnerability was apparent, painfully so. It killed Erik to have to leave her.

"What is the matter?" He inquired with all the gentleness of a loving husband. "Christine." With the back of his curled fingers he turned those expressive grey eyes onto him. "Tell me what's on your mind. This is more than mere shock."

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I just killed a man, Erik." Her voice was strangely firm, in stark comparison to her fragile appearance. "Should I not feel wracked with shame, or vile, or sinful? But I feel _nothing_. I don't feel remorse, or guilt, or even sadness." She looked desperately at him. "Does this make me a monster?"

"Don't you ever think that!" He said fiercely. He took her face between his gloved hands. "Not feeling anything does not mean that you lack a conscience, it simply means that you are composed enough to keep calm in the face of danger." He kissed her forehead. "You did what you had to, and I'm so proud of you for doing that."

For the first time, a tiny smile touched her lips.

Erik returned from London after disposing of Flavio's body in the early hours of the morning. Silent and darkened, the house had never appeared larger or colder before. Thinking that Christine had gone to bed, he soundlessly started up the stairs. But there was a faint light in the library, slipping out through the cracks of the door and pooling in the hallway.

Cautiously, Erik pushed open the door. Christine was huddled on the ground by the rug where Flavio's corpse had lain. In the middle of the maroon was a darker pool of red, proof that blood had been spilt. The blood stained the centre of the rug, almost as if it had blossomed from the lighter colour, like a dark thought that was nurtured by an innocent soul and grew until it corrupted the innocent.

Hearing Erik's entry, Christine looked up at him with a tearstained face. The guilt of taking a life had hit her. Erik racked his mind for words of comfort, but could find none that could offer both solace and honesty.

She wanted to tell him how she felt. About the guilt that racked her entire being. The grief that convulsed through her heart. The wretchedness that plagued her. She wanted to tell him how after he left, she had fallen asleep and dreamed. She had been alone with Flavio pointing a gun to her head, but when she wrestled the gun from him and shot him, it had been her own chest that the bullet entered, her own blood that was spilled, her own life that was taken.

But she did not speak. She did not have the words, or the strength, or the courage to tell him all this.

Without her speaking, though, Erik knew. He had killed before, again and again, under less forgiving circumstances than those which Christine found herself in. He had killed for bloodlust, for the amusement of others, for his own gain. He knew how terrible it is to face the terrifying aftermath of murder. He knew that whatever he said would be inadequate. And so, he extended his arms and gave another form of comfort.

Christine walked towards him with a deliberate calmness in her step, but halfway across the room she could contain herself no longer. She flung herself into his arms with abandon. He picked up his wife and carried her into their room like a child. He set her in his lap and she curled into his embrace with the desperate need of physical solace. Erik was all too willing to give her that. There was nothing romantic or sensual about the embrace. In that moment, they were simply two people who needed to be held.

Once she had calmed enough, Christine mumbled: "Have you ever felt this terrible?"

"Yes." There was no trace of doubt in his answer. His eyes met hers with certainty. Intense and glowing in the dark, they had never been more tiger-like. Christine was suddenly struck by the reality of her husband's violent past. Somehow, she loved and respected him all the more, knowing that he had hauled himself up from that abyss which must be a thousand times more deep and adverse than hers.

She traced the cold cheek of his mask with her index finger. When she reached the bottom edge, she pulled the garment off. "Don't ever leave again." Her voice was plaintive as a child's.

Rationally, Erik had plenty of protestations against that – they could not spend the next several decades constantly glued to each other's side. But he merely kissed her crown and promised: "Never." And it was true. He loved her completely and infinitely. He would never abandon her. Whatever tomorrow had in store, they would face it hand in hand.

Christine pressed her cheek to his chest. She inhaled deeply, relishing in his scent. She could never find the words to describe how he smelled. It was a mixture of many things – fresh parchment; black ink; fine suits; their bed; and something that was purely Erik. They blended into a perfume that defined him as much as his golden eyes and velvet voice.

Christine committed the smell to memory, at the same time hoping that she could smell it every day for the rest of her life. No more than a few hours ago, a bullet had been two inches away from taking him away from her permanently. The thought made fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

Feeling the hot tears on his shirt, Erik looked down at her. He struggled between comforting her with words and simply letting her cry. After a moment's conflict, he decided on the latter. There had been many reasons for tears this evening, and she should have the liberty of releasing her emotions. Anything was better than the blankness right after the ordeal.

She quieted soon enough. "Christine... look at me, love." Erik tilted her chin up to face him. She beheld him with red-rimmed eyes. "It's all over. No one will interfere with us from now on."

She shook her head vehemently, trying to quell the flow of tears. "It's not that, Erik. I've never thought of you as a... a mortal."

Erik's smile was wry. "I thought you've realized that I'm not an immortal angel."

"No; what I mean is that tonight was the first time I had contemplated the notion of your death. I realized that, no matter how brilliant or wonderful or ingenious you are, you are still a man. A mortal man. You can die so easily. Tonight, for a moment, I honestly thought that he killed you. I thought that I could never again tell you that I love you; or kiss your lips; or succumb to the enchantment of your music; or see that heart-meltingly tender look in your eyes; or hear my own name fall from your lips, the way you make it sound like the most enrapturing sound in the world..." The depths of her eyes filled with torment. "I realized how precious you are to me. I mean, I've always been aware of it. But losing you had been a theoretical idea, one I would not have to deal with for years to come. Tonight, it almost became reality. I actually _know_, for certain." She looked up at him. "Do you know what I mean?"

Erik nodded. There was no need for him to tell her with words, because he could not find the proper words to tell her he understood. He just did. Her beating heart was his own, and the moment her heart stops pulsating, it would be his life that ends. He wrapped his arms around her once again. Her petite body was warm and soft and _alive_. And for this moment, that was all that mattered.

It was a fortnight before things fell into some semblance of normality. Just as Erik had predicted, Flavio Morino was discovered some time the morning after the ordeal by a neighbor. His apartment door had been left open, so the elderly lady had looked within. Upon discovering the body, she had alerted the police. A quick search of the apartment revealed that most of his cash and valuables had been taken. The gun used to kill him – his own – was found on the floor near him. The case was established as a burglary that turned into murder. The police had briefly questioned both Erik and Christine, as well as the majority of Flavio's acquaintances and recent patients. The possibility of their involvement was quickly eliminated, and they were removed from the investigation ever since.

For the most part, things returned to a sort of order. Christine was to star in a new opera at Her Majesty's Theatre, and rehearsals were to begin in a week's time. Erik finalized his plans for a summer home for a certain Duchess. Edward found himself a job in London with a Dr. Bernard. The man was one of Flavio's acquaintances, an elderly doctor planning for his retirement in coming years. Edward would complete his apprenticeship under Dr. Bernard, and then work under him as an assistant. When the good doctor retired, Edward could hope to take over his practice.

But what had happened was ever present in their memories, manifesting itself from time to time. Neither Christine or Erik tried to pretend that nothing had happened. That would have been impossible. What had come to pass a fortnight ago would always be etched within their minds, a constant shadow that made them treasure each other all the more.

It was one crisp afternoon in early November when Erik and Christine were reading separately in the library. Without warning, she announced: "I think that I have gotten ahold of my emotions." At his inquisitively cocked eyebrow, she added: "About my... _killing_ Flavio." Her gaze was pensive, bordering on troubled. "I know that what he did was terrible, that he had caused both of us so much angst, and I hate him, with every fibre of my being." She declared vehemently. "Yet despite all that... I don't know if he deserved death. But after a fortnight, I believe that I have come to terms with how I feel about it."

"And?"

"I did the only thing that I could." She took a deep breath. "That is my reason and consolation for the act."

Erik studied this gorgeous young woman for a moment. Gone was the frightened child he had befriended ten years ago. Christine Destler was independent and confident. She had been faced with dilemmas and misery again and again over the course of the last eight months. He could scarcely believe that it was only eight months since she came back to him. The change she had gone through was dramatic, from a shrinking violet into a blooming rose.

"Erik?" Her crystalline voice called him back to the present.

"Yes?"

She looked up from her book, meeting his eyes through her lashes. "When we get a new rug, can it not be red?"

Erik could have laughed with relief at this harmless request. "Of course, my dear."

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**A/N: **Aaaand there's the last chapter. There will be an epilogue after this, that takes place a month later.

I know I've said this loads of times, but a HUGE thank you to every single person who has read this fanfiction up to here. Whether or not you've reviewed, whether or not I've PM'd you, whether or not I know you exist – you are amazing.

I'm starting to write a new story, it's not a Phanfic but it's sort of based on Phantom. I don't want to start publishing until I've written most of it, so it's going to take a while. I'll let you guys know when I publish it (either on Fictionpress. net or Deviant Art), please please please read it then :]

As always, please review!


	30. Chapter 29: Wanderlust

**Disclaimer: **For the last time, I DON'T OWN PHANTOM.

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**Chapter 29: Wanderlust**

With a satisfied expression, Erik folded up Raoul's letter and slipped it back inside the ivory envelope. A month had passed since the confrontation that had resulted in Flavio's death. The Phantom rumours were finally laid to rest. As far as the Parisian authorities were aware, the Phantom had died beneath the Opera Garnier. After witnessing her tutor's death, Christine Daae left for England, began a successful career in London, and married a well-known architect.

Erik hesitated for a moment before tossing the letter, envelope and all, into the fireplace, the only source of light in the unlit study. He pensively watched the hungry flames snake greedily around the paper, flaring with brilliant ferocity as it consumed, casting ghostly shadows to dance across Erik's mask. Finally, it settled back into a sated crackling. The letter, which once had contained information and words and meaning, was reduced to a pile of ashes.

The task completed, Erik turned back towards his desk. He looked down at the designs for the Duchess's summer home. The plans were all but finalized. For once, architecture failed to entrance him. He felt a strange stirring within him, a restlessness that was not foreign, but had been absent for a long time.

In the days when he was a young man, Erik would often be struck by such a restlessness. He would act on his instinct, leaving wherever he resided at the time to travel aimlessly. In recent years these bouts of wanderlust had lessened considerably. He had no doubt that his then newfound romantic interest in his pupil was a cause for this. He had also accounted it to his mellowing with old age. Since his marriage to Christine, he had not felt such a compulsion to travel.

But where to? Not back to France, not so soon. Although Raoul had promised that their secret was safe – and Erik did not see cause to doubt the boy, not when he seemed all too willing to forget his own role in the ploy – it would still be tempting fate to return to the country where he had been prosecuted less than a year ago.

Erik rose from his desk. With elegant, cat-like grace, he paced around it and exited through the door to his study. His long-legged strides brought him to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him with deliberate quietness. A small figure slumbered in the huge bed, oblivious to her husband's disappearance from her side. Erik soundlessly changed into his bedclothes and prepared for bed. Last of all, he removed his mask and placed it on his bedside table, feeling that unfamiliar rush of cold air against the tender skin of deformity. Kneeling down beside the bed, his heart softened as he beheld his dear wife. Her face was serene, with none of the agitation that had accompanied her this past month like a menacing phantom.

Erik quelled the desire to stroke her curls, or to press a kiss to her pristine cheek. Doing so would wake her, and he knew that she needed the peace that she seemed only to find in the shelter of sleep. With a final tender gaze, Erik rose from the carpeted floor and made his way, barefoot, to the bay windows. He drew open the dark curtains to gaze outside.

It had snowed in the night. He had woken just before midnight to the wind's lonesome howl and snow pelting down in fury. Now, several hours later, the downpour had eased to a lazy flutter of the most delicate snowflakes. The grounds were covered in a layer of fine powder, almost like icing on a cake.

It was a moonless night once again, and it reminded him of the night his life was changed.

Of course, he recognized with a sardonic smile, there had been many nights where his life was changed. But the one that came to mind was the only night where it changed for the better. The night Christine came back to him. He had scarcely been able to believe that she was in her right mind. Indeed, some part of him still wondered whether she was completely sane to love him and marry him. In retrospect, he didn't know how he could have survived this past year without her by his side, and if it were merely an illusion that brought her to him, he would gladly thank this insanity.

Despite the moon's absence from the night sky, the stars twinkled down. Each distinct spark had its own chilly sparkle. Tonight, without the moon's radiance, the stars relished in their own freedom. For tonight, on this new moon, the night sky was theirs and theirs alone. They were drunk with their own splendor. Little did they know that, as they strove to outshine each other, they created a light that was more brilliant than any single, proud moon.

A willowy pair of arms wrapped themselves around Erik's waist. Christine's head rested in the hollow between his shoulder blades. Erik placed his hands above hers in response. A year ago Christine's embraces were nothing but fantasy, the most impossible dreams. Now, they were something she gave him every day. Erik knew that he would never take this for granted – her warmth against his, her arms around him, her head on his back, her immense gentleness, her unending love.

"When did it start snowing?" She asked in her soprano tones.

"Around midnight." Came Erik's simple reply.

"Pity all the snow's going to melt before Christmas," Christine commented lightly.

Erik smiled, though she couldn't see it. "You never know; maybe the snow will stay for a fortnight."

She gave a single light laugh. "Probably not, but we can always hope, right? It's been so long since we've had a white Christmas,"

Erik felt rather than heard Christine's sigh. The inhalation made her press closer against him for a moment, and then withdraw by a minuscule breadth. "You couldn't sleep." It was an asserted statement, not a question. Nevertheless, he nodded in confirmation. "Why?" Came her soft question. Erik had learned to tell that she asked it not to pry into his secrets, but out of genuine concern.

In a lithe movement, he had turned around and swept Christine into his arms. "What do you say, my dear, to a much needed holiday?"

The angel before him cocked her head to the side. The flicker of starlight, and its reflected glory off the fresh-fallen snow, illuminated her. Her brunette curls were glossy in the gentle light. Her white silken nightdress all but glowed in the darkened bedroom. "A holiday?" She repeated after him in incredulity. The faintest hint of a smile teased the corners of her lips. "Where to?"

Erik shrugged. "Anywhere you want, my dear. Don't you want to get away from everything? Leave what's happened behind, at least for now." His golden eyes were alight with a flame that was not unlike his passion for music. "I've been struck by wanderlust. It turns out that I'm not so old that I've lost the urge!"

"Erik!" She admonished. "You are not old!" She cupped his face between her hands.

He chuckled. "Darling, I'm in my forties."

"That's not old; you're still in your prime." She protested.

Erik gave in to her adamant insistence. "So how does a holiday sound? You can think of it as a belated honeymoon; after all, we never did have a honeymoon after we married."

Christine nodded, enjoying the idea. "The last show of the season is this Saturday, we can leave right after,"

Erik laughed, the deep resonance vibrating warmly through the room. "And go wherever the whim takes us." He swept her of her feet and spun her around. Her bell-like laughter tinkled merrily in harmony with his rich tones. "Where will it be, Madame? Italy? Germany? Ireland? The world is ours to see; ours to explore."

Still laughing in delight, the couple tumbled onto the bed in each other's arms. "Can you imagine," Christine said breathlessly, rolling onto her back. "It was only a year ago – only a few weeks from the exact day! – when you appeared at the masque and snatched the chain off my neck? My chains are yours, I belong to you!"

Erik sobered, and spoke in a voice was filled with remorse. "I am truly sorry for falling to madness."

"The past doesn't matter any more." Christine said with resolution. "Everything that you have done is forgiven. And besides, were it not for all that had happened, we may not be here now."

Erik sighed contentedly. "You are an angel from heaven, you know that?"

"No," She disagreed gently, turning her head to look at him. "Simply a naive, shallow child who learned to grow up. You gave me my wings, Erik. You taught me how to fly." Her voice was warm as she looked forward. Her gaze was directed at the canopy of the bed, but her grey eyes were unfocused.

"Your wings were there all along, I simply showed them to you. You learned to fly all on your own."

Christine remained silent for a long time. Her breathing was deep and even, and Erik thought that she had succumbed to sleep once again. He considered trying to sleep himself, but then she spoke. "It's amazing how far we'd come. I'm so proud of you, my angel. You've let me in, past the walls and masks you barricade your heart with." She caressed the deformity of his face with a tenderness that he was beginning to accustom to.

"Because you were willing to see past them. I am exposed before you, Christine, both figuratively and literally." He mirrored her action, running his thumb across her perfect cheek. "You've seen me for all I am, for what I really am. The man behind the monster."

She closed her eyes and panted a chaste, lingering kiss on his malformed lips. "I love you, my Angel of Music."

"I love you too." His golden eyes burned with sincerity as he opened them.

Christine giggled in sudden mirth. "I know where I want to go, Erik!" She announced with zest, her grey eyes lighting up like the pre-dawn light. "I want to visit my homeland. I want to go to Sweden."

"Then Sweden it is!" He declared. "I suppose that, in that case, you will have your white Christmas after all."

Under a moonless sky once more, in a dim room illuminated by the light of the free, unrestrained stars, they fell asleep entwined in each other's arms.

* * *

**A/N: **First of all, apologies that the chapter is a day late, I was caught up with other stuff (ie school) last night. I COULD have edited the chapter and uploaded it, but I really can't bear to let it end.

This is the final chapter. Thank you to every single person who has read up to here. Thank you for all the support, all the reviews. You guys are all amazing.

Special shoutout to:

deathsangel95, You Are Love, 13Aphrodite, PhantomFan01, inkblottales, Shellylovestoread, zoesy27, Pointless Nostalgic, darcytess, trrmo77, aribx3, Victoria, The Phantomess 99, phangirl2017, analusilvaj, Availre, MusicalLover17, Eriksangelofmusic4ever, newbornphanatic, JollyRoger1, snowstorm-at-sunset, blackribbonedroses, Phanatic01, nerdyperformer, partypenguina3, AmandaKK, LaurenvBelladona, mamaXunicorn, AdriJB06, Million, Aline95, Ailovec, login password, RosePC786, White dragon lady, Vivianne Ravenheart, Magdeline, aPersonYouDontNeedToKnow, thegeyerguesthouse, gracial9352...

That should be it, I really hope I didn't miss anyone, but these are the people who have followed the story for a while and left reviews. Thank you so, so, so much for that. And to my readers who haven't reviewed but have read this story all the way to this final chapter (I know you exist), THANK YOU for enjoying my story. I love all of you.

If you guys enjoyed this, I hope that you'll keep an eye out for my other stories. Erik and Christine will possible make a reappearance soon ;]


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